Honor
by Nex-thanarak
Summary: Life for the orcs is not easy. But it is simple. They are guided by a simple, straightforward ideal. Honor. To live honorably is the entire life, and death, of any orc. But the meaning of this simple word can be nebulous. How can one live honorably when each new leader chooses what it means to be honorable? Deneth, a young female orc in Garrosh's Horde, must learn it for herself.
1. Out With The Old

Hello everyone.

I loved the Demon Hunter series so much that I wanted to do another book in the Warcraft universe. The only thing stopping me was that I couldn't think of what to do. I toyed with following Ilinar through some Vanilla WoW/Outland/Titan themes, but the problem was the story really didn't interest me for one thing. And for another thing Montfere is kind of a little shit, truth be told. I didn't want to write a story with a hero even worse than Nex, and that's the only way I could see to write him.

You may still see him in this, though. You may see other characters as well.

Also I like to follow the story, and to be honest recently the story has been about Horde. Following the story in the Demon Hunter series mostly followed Illidan, since he was the driving force behind everything. This time I'll be following Garrosh's Horde. It's a good opportunity to swap factions.

So I'm pleased to bring you "Honor". The story of Drazgh, an old orc hero still haunted by his memories of the Old Horde and his actions while part of the Blood Oath. And Deneth, daughter of Drazgh, a strong and honorable warrior growing up in Garrosh's Horde. Their struggle to stay true to what it is to be an orc, when so much of that has been forgotten in the recent trials of their race, will be challenged by the chaos and bloodlust of a new Horde that seems determined to abandon all the sacrifices of earlier heroes and return to the nature of the Old Horde.

A couple of things about Honor. First off it's not going to follow canon quite as closely as my Demon Hunter series. A couple of reasons for that. 1. I don't know the Cata and MoP lore quite as well as I do the earlier stuff. This is partly because; 2. I'm not as inspired by Blizzard's current writing as I am by their past writing. I'd like to see where I can go with this.

Most of the pertinent Horde events will be there, but maybe not quite in the way you remember them. I haven't decided yet whether to skip Pandaria entirely or only distantly reference, or just make it a minor part of the story. Either way our heroes probably won't do much there.

A brief warning about content. My Demon Hunter series had some adult material, although I tried not to be too graphic. Honor will also have adult material. I'll continue to try not to be too graphic with it, but the nature of the story requires it somewhat. Because of this I've upped its rating from "T" to "M".

Last of all, of course, this material is set in Blizzard's World of Warcraft. This is a fan fiction, set entirely in a world made by many, many talented writers and designers of all kinds.

I'm just grateful to be a part of it, and to give you an opportunity to be a part of it in a new way.

NT

Honor

Prologue

Out With The Old

_Below him Shattrath burned, the poisonous gas the warlocks had launched into the Lower City mingling with the smoke from the main terrace flames. Together they made a choking cloud that had even the blood-crazed orcs wading through the slaughter coughing and gagging._

_ But up here on Aldor Rise the air was clear, filled only with the screams echoing from within the Shrine of Unending Light._

_ Drazgh hauled himself the rest of the way up onto the rise, drawn by the siren calls of pain and horror drifting his way. He had sated his bloodlust in the massacre down below, cutting down the remaining draenei who survived the poisonous Lower City. Now he had lust of a different kind to think of._

_ He had always quietly appreciated the delicate beauty of female draenei. They were far more graceful and lithe than orc females, though lacking that animal attractiveness. He had never contemplated coupling with them the way some orcs mated with ogresses, but now the Blood Oath singing in his veins pulled him to satisfy all his basest desires, and their armies had brought few orc women with them._

_ The city below had been strangely empty of women and children. Most were here, on Aldor Rise, the place where the draenei had taken their final stand against orcish invaders._

_ He passed the bodies of a few exarchs and anchorites as he hurried up the steps of the shrine. Just outside the door a single priestess lay sprawled, her pure white robes soiled and bunched up around her neck. She had been more comely than most female draenei, with well polished horns and hooves and long, lustrous hair. Pleasantly plump, showing curves in all the right places and plenty of muscle. The priestess bore no visible wounds save for the ones caused by multiple violations, indicating how she had died._

_ The sight lifted him into a frenzy and he bounded up the remaining steps, through the door and into the draenei temple. The screams beckoned him on._

Drazgh bolted awake, panting. Guilt and shame filled him as he struggled to push away the dream, same as they always did when he dreamed of his time under the sway of the Blood Pact. They made good company with the even more shameful longing he felt.

Longing for when things were easier, and he could blame his actions on his leaders or the demon blood within him.

With a shudder he pushed out of bed, splashing some water over his sweat-soaked face and bare chest from the crude clay jar beside the door. Then he pushed out into the chill predawn of Durotan. It only took four steps to reach the end of the ledge his house was built upon, looking down at the still, silent bulk of Orgrimmar below. He stood there, heedless of the fall, and tried to clear his head.

He remembered everything he'd done while under the corrupting influence of Mannoroth's blood. And like the other orcs who remembered he knew he hadn't been a completely unwilling slave. Even now he reveled in the slaughter, in the glorious battles between vast armies. The blood, the thunder of metal clashing and feet pounding. The feel of his weapon tearing into his enemies.

And the shameful spoils.

But what troubled him about those memories was how many of the things which had seemed honorable to the old Horde with its demonic bloodlust now seemed honorable to the new Horde. And more troubling still, how many of the violent tenets they'd followed for glory while under the grip of demons had been honorable to the orcs before they'd ever been contacted by the Burning Legion at all.

Thrall claimed Grom Hellscream had freed the orcs from their curse of bloodlust. But how much of a curse was it, how free had they become, when the orcs had so closely resembled the demons they served beforehand and how closely they still resembled them now under Garrosh?

A peaceful, shamanistic society, Thrall called the Orcish history before Ner'zhul. But Drazgh remembered fighting ogres and gronn, arrakoa and other orc clans, and even raiding draenei villages. He remembered his father telling him stories of glorious past battles. His grandfather.

How peaceful could their society be if the only way to die with honor was on the battlefield?

Drazgh spat over the side, into the blackness of the Valley of Strength below. Strength, honor. The strong took what they wanted from the weak. Orc females didn't let any warrior take them unless they were stronger, peons served because they didn't dare fight, and those who produced a bountiful harvest or an abundant herd were just asking to share their spoils with whoever they couldn't defend themselves against.

He hadn't wanted to be part of Thrall's new Horde, with the son of Durotan's talk of peace and suffering in this wasteland in penance for their sins. That wasn't the way of the clans. That was a reflection of Thrall's human upbringing, the shameful weakness that Thrall flaunted as if it was strength.

But at the same time he didn't want to be part of Hellscream's Horde with its reflection of the demon but none of the influence of the broken Blood Pact. The orcs had held a middle ground, once. Taking what they needed but never needlessly destructive. Delighting in battle but never killing any who couldn't or wouldn't fight back.

Taking females for mates, but never the females of other races whose struggles were real, not part of the game of mating.

Did any besides him remember what it meant to be orc? To have true honor, not the bloodlust of demons or the weak pandering of humans.

A soft presence came up beside him. His daughter, clad only in her skin, as was he. For a few moments they stood together, looking out at the vista below. "You were thrashing in your sleep again, father," she said quietly. "The old dreams?"

Drazgh nodded but didn't reply, enjoying the silence of the morning and the presence of his offspring. Very much like her mother, Deneth was. But far more fierce and skilled in the ways of war. Her'gra had been beautiful and strong, but she hadn't put up much of a fight when he took her, and to be honest he'd taken her more for her beauty than her strength.

The fear had always been with him that his offspring would share their mother's weakness, and even more when she died bearing Deneth. His only blood.

But Deneth had grown up fierce and strong, and perhaps it was a mercy Her'gra had died and never spread her weakness of thought and temperament to her daughter. Under Drazgh's tutelage she'd taken to weapons as if they were part of her, and as she'd gotten older more than a few male orcs had looked at her in admiration, and females in envy.

She'd been old enough to breed for years, now. Young orcs had tried to take her all that time, but she'd easily fended off their advances, growing more frustrated as none were able to overcome her. Many had scars to show for it, and Deneth had more than a few herself.

Deneth wanted to be mated, and she was certainly comely enough to draw the eyes of the strongest orcs. But thus far none had managed it and that only fueled her anger, making her even more harsh and brutal in her fighting, and thus increasing her reputation and making her more intimidating. She was gaining a great deal of honor in Hellscream's horde, but not the mate she desired.

The mate she deserved. She deserved better than to be living in her father's house at her age, timidly nipped by pups who squeaked and bolted when she bared her teeth.

Perhaps he should rethink protecting her from the attentions of Hellscream's inner circle. There were strong orcs, there, easily strong enough to overpower her and take her for their own. But their souls were weak, falling behind Hellscream and unquestioningly supporting his every command. Deneth deserved someone who was not only strong enough to take her, but wise enough to appreciate her strength and build a life together with her.

Hellscream's grunts beat and cowed their women like they were slaves, or worse pathetic half-orcs. Had they no shame?

Thoughts of his daughter eventually being taken and mated bothered Drazgh, for they returned him to his previous thoughts of the direction the new Horde had gone. Deneth was strong, yes, but the fact that no worthy male had yet been strong enough to take her was a bad sign for the new generation. A shameful weakness few seemed willing to acknowledge or rectify.

Even more shamefully, more than one male who had failed to take Deneth had tried to kill her if they couldn't have her, taking their violence beyond the game of mating and into a duel started in the most dishonorable way. It broke his heart to see Deneth's pain as she was forced to kill and maim potential mates, and fueled his righteous anger when he finished off those she spared.

"What do you think about when you stand here, father?" his daughter eventually asked. "Your forehead is always lined, and your scowl deeper than usual."

"I think of our future."

She nodded. Many orcs thought of the future these days. It was better than thinking of the past. "What do you see for us?"

"Conflict, conflict, and more conflict," he said grimly.

Her smile was predatory. "Good. There is much honor to be gained, and Garrosh has the will to see us through it."

"Does he?" Drazgh shook his head slowly. "We show our strength through combat, and take what we have the strength for. But even the strongest orc doesn't walk alone into an ogre camp. Garrosh challenges the Alliance, under him Sylvanas challenges the Argent Crusade, we use the Sunreavers and risk angering the Kirin Tor, and we make war with the night elves, threatening to draw the ire of the dragon Aspects that watch over them."

"More enemies to fight."

Drazgh laughed sharply. "The Horde is strong, daughter, but not as strong as the Old Horde. And even the Old Horde failed when it tried to fight the whole world at once. Hellscream may be leading us to a fight we can't win."

She seemed angry. "And what would you have us do, father? Back down and huddle in this desert like Thrall wants us to do, weak and starving?"

"I do not know, daughter," Drazgh said harshly, staring down at the manufactory where goblins were starting to scurry out of the woodwork and begin their daily tasks. "We try to cling to old traditions we half know, struggle to hold onto what it is to be orc. But what we call honor the other races of this world call black dishonor. While we hold to our ways they will fight us tooth and nail until they've destroyed us. And they are right to do so, if they have that strength."

"What are you saying, father?" Deneth said, shocked.

He shook his head, feeling suddenly deeply weary. "I would be happy to die as an orc rather than live as a human, if only I knew that was how I was truly dying. But is it foolishness to lead our entire people to destruction in pursuit of honor? When does honor for honor's sake go from being noble to being cowardly?"

The young orc warrior shifted nervously. "I don't like to hear you talk like this, father. You sound like Thrall."

Drazgh whirled and spat at her feet, towering in insult. "This from you, daughter? Thrall has embraced the human honor and tries to force it on us, tarnishing our own heritage. Perhaps he is right to do so, if we want to live on this world, but I can't accept it. But no more can I accept what Garrosh calls honor. It is an even greater abomination!"

The young female lowered her head sullenly. She knew she couldn't best him. And when she could she would. "At least Garrosh leads us to victory. He doesn't force us to starve and scrape in a wasteland in pursuit of some penance for deeds none of us even committed."

"And in turn you'd commit deeds of your own?" Drazgh said, anger vanishing with unorcly suddenness, shaming him. "You didn't live under the Blood Oath, daughter. For half a century our leaders have pursued power and glory, trampling honor by the wayside. Ner'zul, Gul'dan. Even the revered Doomhammer and Hellscream the Elder betrayed our people for power.

"And after that betrayal, that erosion of our culture, came the defeat. Torn from our leaders, languishing in camps while our heritage was forgotten. When we finally freed ourself half of us barely even knew what it was to be orc."

Deneth shifted impatiently, looking annoyed. "What's the point of this history, father? You don't even speak of past battles or glory."

"Then I'll speak of it," Drazgh said sternly. "I'll speak of how by the time we took the Blood Oath and became little better than demons, instruments of the Burning Legion's destructive goals, most of the actions we committed under the pall of that bloodlust never struck me as dishonorable, even after Hellscream freed us from the Pact."

His daughter staggered back, eyes wide in horror. "I-I don't understand."

"I'm saying that many of the things we find honorable as a people make us behave exactly like the demons that enslaved us! I'm saying that young people like you, who have had your cultural identity and your heritage torn from you, no longer even know how to be honorable! You look to whoever leads you and take your honor from them!"

She scowled. "I know what-"

Drazgh struck her hard, throwing her to the ground. Brazen whelp had gone too far this time. "You know nothing! Our people know nothing! Thrall said he was going to return us to our roots, but instead he forced human honor upon us! And the orcs were so lost to themselves that they let him! Then when Garrosh came, that cur who was so despised on his own world that he fled from other orcs. He embraced all the ideals of his father, all the worst aspects of the Burning Legion's influence, and called that honor. _And the orcs were so lost to themselves that they let him return us to that state_! But now we don't even have the excuse of pit lord blood coursing within us to explain our actions!"

Deneth surged to her feet, hands on her weapons. She was obviously so disturbed by what he was saying that she was willing to challenge him, win or lose. "So what is honor, father?" she spat. "I obviously just follow whoever is leading us at the time, so why don't you force your own honor on me?"

Drazgh stepped back, letting her save this small amount of face. He didn't want to have to kill his only flesh and blood, the child of his beloved Her'gra. "Perhaps I should," he growled. "If the orcs as a people have decided to adopt the honor of whoever leads them, perhaps it is best to find someone who struggles to hold to _orc_ honor. At least as best as I can remember it. Not human honor, not demon honor. Perhaps it is time to _find_ our heritage again. Not the heritage of those pathetic Mag'har who fled and turned their backs on their own race and discovered an honor that kept them from war and glory."

For a moment his daughter stood there, eyes flashing. How strong she was, even for one so young! Had he been so strong at her age? Perhaps she would challenge him after all. He had no desire to die, but there were worse ways to fall than as a stepping stone to lift your offspring even higher.

But instead she turned away, back to their home. "I should know better to talk to you after an old dream," she growled. The door crashed shut behind her and she was gone.

Drazgh turned back to look out over Orgrimmar. Hellscream had banished many of the tauren and trolls living within the city, forcing them out to the goblin work camps. Many were returning to their own people, fracturing the ties of brotherhood Thrall had spent years binding. Drazgh had no issue with each race being left to itself, but anything that weakened the strength of the Horde right when Hellscream seemed poised to unleash all-out war upon the Alliance was a foolish move.

Foolish. Hellscream seemed full of foolish moves. What madness was it in orc culture that demanded brash young orcs take the mantle of Warchief, disdaining older, more experienced orcs for their age and relegating them to the position of advisor?

To be fair Hellscream was older than Thrall, but Drazgh would put his own Deneth's maturity and wisdom up against the Mag'har's and call her the winner.

A distant clanging and whirring came from the goblin manufactory. More war machines were being built there. Wasteful, unreliable machines that destroyed themselves as often as the enemy. Why did Hellscream love them so?

With a sigh Drazgh turned away. Dark thoughts filled his mind after his dreams. Sullen thoughts about leaders he had sworn to uphold, a people he loved and was fiercely proud to belong to.

A war he wasn't sure they could win, or even should attempt.

In the morning his heart would be stone once more. He would stand behind Hellscream with the other venerable advisors and be ignored. But when the time came to fight he would be out there advising the young warleaders. Terror would sing in his hands once more, crushing the feeble defenses of his enemies.

The peace talks with the Alliance hadn't gone well, thanks largely to Hellscream's impetuous behavior. For once Drazgh blessed it, though, for it had kept Thrall from making that vital oath to continue the nonaggression with the night elves. Because of that the resources the Horde needed, not only to prosecute war but to survive, were within their grasp. The doors to Ashenvale were wide open.

And through them the wolves of hell would come snarling, ridden by the heroes of the Horde.


	2. Warhorns

Chapter One

Warhorns

The sun was already blistering when Drazgh pushed through the last of the crowded streets separating his home from Grommash Hold. Barely midmorning and already promising to be a brutal day. Deneth would be out in the training grounds in this, as she often was.

Nothing like the heat to strengthen a young orc.

On the subject of young orcs, a dozen orc children under the age of ten rushed past him, laughing and calling as they made for the cool shade beneath the cliffs on the seaward side. Children with no purpose and no direction, getting into mischief. Where were their parents to rein them in and set them to worthwhile tasks?

The sobering fact that they might be orphans was not reassuring. But who could tell in Orgrimmar these last weeks?

Gather, Hellscream's edict had declared to all orcs. Abandon fields, leave farms, walk away from prosperous lives to become refugees in the city dedicated to Orgrim Doomhammer.

And they'd come. Crowding the streets, filling every guest house to bursting, sleeping in alleys and shitting on thoroughfares. All hoping for honor, all waiting for glory.

Some had been waiting for weeks, now. How much longer would they wait before Hellscream acknowledged his own actions and addressed the issue? Admitting to a mistake was probably beyond the Warchief, but it would be nice to hack this problem off at the feet before it grew into a catastrophe.

Grommash Hold had been built in the center of the Valley of Strength, near the main gates to the city and smack dab in the middle of the city's commerce. Drazgh could see the strategic value of the location, but having the center of leadership in the same place as the market and other commerce areas meant the Valley of Strength was usually clogged with orcs going about their business even before the refugees started pouring in.

Now, this close to the hold, he had to shove for every foot. Kodos pulling wagons lurged in the chaos, children darted underfoot, and tempers flared as no one was able to move.

"Mind your place, old one," a shabbily dressed young male snarled as Drazgh shoved past him. Likely one of the newly arrived refugees. Drazgh barely gave him a second thought as he turned and slammed his forehead into the young orc's nose. No room for any better blow, the other orc reeled away and didn't come back, so good enough.

Grommash Hold shouldn't have been rebuilt here after the Cataclysm. The decision was poorly thought out and played hell with the city's ability to function properly.

Then again, there was a certain amusing irony to the new Warchief moving his base of operations out of the Valley of Wisdom. And the irony was furthered by Hellscream settling down in the middle of the Valley of Strength. But to be truly ludicrous he would've had to have built his new seat of power in the Valley of Honor.

Ah, the old called the young fools while the young called the old weak. Sad that all too often it was true.

Kor'kron sentries held the entrance to the hold. In this case it wasn't just a ceremonial or honorary position, since the big grunts had to constantly shove the teeming crowd of orcs back and tear down the shelters refugees kept trying to build along the half-finished walls of the hold.

They nodded in respect as Drazgh pushed out of the crowd and into the cleared pocket in front of the entrance, letting him walk through. Someone behind must've gotten the wrong idea and tried to follow, because a moment later one of the warriors rushed forward and he heard several meaty thuds. The Kor'kron were becoming more and more insistent in their warnings.

Hellscream better start his war soon, or he'd get it right on his doorstep.

Inside the hold was comfortably cool. Hallways circled around to either side, his way forward blocked by the vissing wall to keep the Warchief's chamber private from outside eyes. Most of the hallway's inner walls were open to the chamber, but they kept their form enough all the way around that slaves and attendants could follow them around to get to the rooms along the outer circle without disturbing their Warchief.

An old design. As old as the orcs themselves. But not terribly practical for the spot where the Warchief of the Horde received visitors. Thrall's old chamber with its antechamber and side rooms had been more suitable.

Almost as soon as he entered the Warchief's chamber his way forward was blocked by a hulking shape that towered over him by almost a foot.

Malkorok, of the Blackrock clan. The monstrous orc could almost have been a fel orc if his coloring was red. His eyes were small and burned with hatred to a disturbing degree no matter what he was doing.

To Drazgh, the mere presence of that "bodyguard" was an insult in multiple ways. First of all was the fact that Hellscream had taken a bodyguard at all. All orcs of the Horde were sworn to serve and protect their warchief. The only danger Hellscream would be in while among his own people would be from a formal challenge. And he'd already won a duel against a dangerous foe in defeating Cairne Bloodhoof. In spite of the duel's suspicious circumstances and dishonorable ending.

For Hellscream to have a bodyguard was as good as their Warchief saying he suspected his warriors of being dishonorable cowards who might try to kill him in some way besides an honorable challenge. Drazgh new from personal experience that those who feared dishonor in others were usually less than honorable themselves.

So he shouldn't have a bodyguard to protect against internal threats. And if it was to protect against threat from without he may as well say he feared the Alliance.

Then was the insult of choosing a Blackrock orc to protect him. Aside from the fact that it was similar to putting a rabid wolf to guarding your house, couldn't Hellscream find any good, loyal orcs from among the ranks of the Kor'kron for the task?

And a Blackrock. Those really were rabid wolves, kicked out of the Old Horde by Doomhammer after he personally beheaded Blackhand. They'd been sunk deepest into the Blood Oath, the most twisted and demonic, and after Grom slew Mannoroth and freed the orcs the Blackrocks had spent the next decade and more trying to summon demons and regain the blood corruption.

Hellscream had one of _those_ as his bodyguard. Even worse, an orc that even Blackrocks had driven out from among them.

Aside from that this Malkorok was unsavory in numerous other ways. He visited the goblin pleasure houses and drank hard liquor. He bedded half-draenei slaves and even paid to mate with females. There were sinister rumors going around about him, like that he'd killed a female during mating, and while drinking in a bar he'd stabbed a troll in the back after the troll insulted him.

And perhaps most disturbing of all Hellscream listened to him. They were often closeted away behind closed doors, laughing and making merry.

Foolishness heaped upon foolishness. That was Hellscream having Malkorok as a bodyguard.

The Blackrock orc turned those disconcerting eyes his way, and Drazgh found he had trouble meeting them. They reminded him of too many orcs of the Old Horde he'd known, for whom matching gazes was seen as a challenge. More than once he'd found himself abruptly under attack by a crazed companion, simply because he'd looked at him.

Drazgh met that gaze calmly. If Malkorok wished to attack him here in Grommash Hold he would reveal himself for the rabid dog he was. Hellscream would have no choice but to put him down. Assuming Drazgh couldn't do it personally; fel orcs could be horribly brutal enemies, but they were direct in their attacks and easy to outmaneuver.

Then again, he wasn't as strong as he'd once been. And Malkorok was rumored to have broken a kodo's neck with one hand. Besides, he'd made his point in meeting the orc's gaze.

Drazgh looked away and continued on into the hold's central chamber, where other advisors of the Warchief had gathered. Along with a few Horde petitioners.

The goblin was there, Overseer Blitwhistle. Head of the Manufactory that produced so many of Hellscream's toys. Drazgh had spoken to the goblin on more than one occasion about matters of timing and finances, and he'd found the creature to have a prodigious brain for such a diminutive body.

Blitwhistle was able to juggle schedules, rosters, finances, payments received and delivered, and dozens of other fields of information in that mind of his. Ready to be spewed out at a moment's demand. Sometimes Drazgh wondered how a goblin who had a hand in everything and who everyone went to for coordination and direction couldn't be considered a leader in his own right.

"Drazgh," the little creature said with a solemn nod. Most goblins tended towards manic grins and wild eyes, but Blitwhistle seemed almost frightfully calm most of the time.

"The manufactory report isn't due for two more days, is it?" he asked. Blitwhistle was spending more and more time in this chamber of late, and the hell of it was he was _useful_ here.

The goblin shrugged. "The Warchief called for all leaders and advisors in the city to meet at noon. This room is going to be filling up soon."

Drazgh grunted. "Perhaps he's finally decided what to do with all the refugees. It would've been nice if he'd had that planned _before_ calling every orc on Azeroth to drop everything and gather in Orgrimmar."

The goblin blinked lazily. "My dear Elder, is that criticism of our Warchief I'm hearing?"

Insufferable goblin. "Since when is making an observation criticism?"

"I've found that most criticisms do tend to take the form of observations, actually." The goblin sidled away towards a little pedestal that hadn't been there last time Drazgh was in the chamber. It had a thick cushion atop it. Blitwhistle really _was_ putting down roots. Maybe he was maneuvering to take control of Bilgewater Cartel out from under Trade Prince Gallywix.

Not hard, considering the absent goblin wasn't here to defend it. Drazgh hadn't even heard rumor of Gallywix in a long while, so it was possible the spot was open after all.

Why had Thrall selected such an dishonorable little fiend to represent the newly recruited goblins in the Horde?

With a sigh Drazgh moved over to the bench where Hellscream's other advisors were gathered. He'd never thought when he was young that he'd grow old and become one of those miserable orcs who complained about everything. But then again when he was young there'd been nothing to complain about.

Aside from the food. And sleeping on rock. And no females. And waiting around for the chieftains to find victims for a raid so he could get some excitement.

Time dragged by. Drazgh did his best to attend to his duties, finding those he needed to speak with about various Horde business among the increasing crowd in the chamber. Before too long it was almost as packed as the streets outside had been, although with a higher caliber of people.

Powerful orc warriors, Orgrimmar administrators, heroes and leaders from among the vassal races. Along the inside curve of the vissing wall a handful of tauren loomed above the throng, representatives from Baine Bloodhoof. He caught the brief, _wrong_ scent of undeath in the crowd, the Banshee Queen's emissary, although he didn't see any undead among the taller orcs. The blood elf emissary was likely with the undead, also out of sight.

Trolls were noticeably absent from the hall. It was odd not to see them, since in Thrall's Horde many of the creatures had attended him, one of them being Vol'jin himself. The implications of Hellscream's falling out with the troll chieftain were starting to rear their ugly head as trolls gradually disappeared from Orgrimmar and returned to their newly reclaimed home in the Echo Isles. Hellscream still demanded soldiers from Vol'jin, and trolls could be seen in the various barracks and training grounds, and more commonly out on the front lines fighting the Alliance.

But not in Orgrimmar. When your leader threatens to shoot the new Warchief in the back from the shadows it's usually a good idea to keep away. Not even an open challenge but as good as a promise of assassination. Maybe that's why Hellscream had taken on Malkorok's services.

The chamber had grown uncomfortably hot, the air close and stifling. Goblin engineering had contributed to the hold's construction, providing hidden ventilation and cooling architecture, but even they couldn't battle a hot day outside and nearly a hundred Horde dignitaries clumped inside an enclosed space.

Drazgh sighed and glanced over at Blitwhistle, envying his cushion. Still hours to noon, yet, and he was already longing for the coolness of his home and a few mugs of ale.

Ah well, at least he wasn't outside.

.

Sweat streamed down her back and between her breasts, torn free by the merciless sun pounding down. Her familiar armor didn't feel any heavier than usual, but the day was hot enough she felt like she was broiling in it. Heat waves shivered in the air all around, produced by the baked stone of the training grounds. The air was almost blurry enough to make it difficult to see the blows of her two attackers.

If they'd been faster it probably would be.

Deneth slapped aside an enthusiastic but poorly aimed hammer blow with her practice axe, twisting the haft in midair to send it screaming back at her opponent. The young orc barely had time to gape as the padded head slammed into his borrowed armor and knocked him to the ground for the second time in as many minutes.

Without pausing she sidestepped and yanked her head sideways, not even needing to see the blow to know it was coming. This one had commendable ruthlessness, striking at her unprotected head whenever she wasn't looking, but it made him awfully predictable.

If he'd been better she probably would've suffered having her head baked inside her helmet.

The padded club stirred her hair as it _whoosh_ed by, barely missing her ear. Her second opponent stumbled slightly as his weapon pulled him off-balance, and she whirled and helped him in the direction he was going with a two-handed slash that crushed the head of her axe into his unprotected armpit and knocked him sprawling.

It would've taken his arm off at the shoulder if she'd been wielding Render, helping her live up to her name and reputation.

Deneth twirled the axe in her hands in a mockingly flashy gesture and stepped back, taking a solid stance and ending the weapon's twirl by slamming the head down against the baked stone. "Get up," she growled. "Come at me together this time."

The first orc to go down was picking himself up, awkwardly pulling his two-handed mallet into a guard position. "We did attack at the same time," he protested.

"I engaged each of your attacks individually, so you couldn't have."

The second orc, the older of the two siblings, painfully pulled himself to his knees, groaning as he massaged his armpit. A massive greenish-red bruise was already forming there, visible spreading down beneath his armor and up his arm. The head of Deneth's two-handed axe had been carefully padded, the weight slightly reduced and the metal it was made out of blunted and made of a softer alloy. But even so she'd hit him there hard. He was lucky she hadn't dislocated his shoulder.

"Even if we came at you at the exact same time you'd still be able to engage us individually," he grumbled, finally pushing to his feet and stooping to pick up his mace and shield. For all the good the small buckler had done he might as well have left it off entirely. He hadn't even known to use it enough to block any of her blows.

Deneth laughed. "Are you giving up, then? Where's all your big talk about fighting the Alliance and returning home heroes?"

"Rather fight the Alliance than you," the younger orc muttered. Deneth liked his attitude, even if he hadn't figured out the difference between a smart mouth and a whiny one.

"We're not learning anything fighting you," the older one continued. "You're too experienced."

Deneth paused in the middle of an insult, grudgingly admitting it was probably true. She'd forgotten that most farmers were barely better than peons when it came to fierceness and strength. These two might learn it, they had the potential, but it wouldn't be fast.

A quick glance to the nearby pavilion showed a half dozen orcs and a tauren lounging in the shade, tongues lolling out in the heat. She had to give it to these two recruits, being willing to practice in this heat. A pity they wouldn't be able to find a less skilled opponent to test themselves against who was willing to leave the shade.

"All right," she said sharply. "Drop the club and just focus on the buckler. This time around your only job is to get close enough to touch me, and block whatever attack I send your way on that shield. Think you can manage that?" The orc nodded dubiously.

"What about me?" his brother asked.

Deneth cut short a laugh. He was already humiliating himself enough without her help. "Keep back with that hammer. You're swinging from too close, getting barely any power behind it. This time around focus on swinging from far enough away that just the end of it touches me."

He frowned, tusks peeking up around his upper lip. "What if I miss?"

"You will. That's your second task. Keep swinging as hard as you can, and when you miss figure out how to reset without losing balance."

With dubious nods the two brothers maneuvered out in front of her again, coming from either side.

The half hour or so that followed couldn't fairly be called sparring. More like training two very young children who didn't even know how to hold or use their weapons, let alone attack or defend reliably with them. But inexperienced as the two were they weren't slow, and at least they were learning some things.

Still, the longer the practicing went on the more frustrated she was getting at their lack of competence, and her blows were starting to land harder and harder, and they were starting to show real reluctance in getting back up to continue. She was going to seriously injure one of them if she didn't stop now.

Deneth stepped back, letting the padded practice axe drop to the ground. Her arms sang with the sweet ache of a day spent hurling herself and the meager weapon against practice dummies, then hauling the heavy logs across her shoulders to increase her strength, and finally ending with this laughable excuse for a fight.

The two recruits certainly couldn't have beaten her, even working together, but as exhausted as she was she hoped they would've provided more of a challenge. They were young, but that was no excuse for their puny muscles and hesitant fighting. She'd seen peons more fierce.

"Where are you from?" she asked the older male as he helped his brother to his feet.

The young orc straightened painfully. "Spine Ridge, in the Southern Barrens," he said. "I killed my first quillboar when I had eleven summers."

Deneth nodded, impressed in spite of herself. The porcine humanoids of the barrens were diminutive, but they could be fierce fighters. They'd stubbornly resisted Orcish intrusion into their lands and had fought tooth and nail. As they should.

Not unworthy enemies, but they'd proven too weak to hold their own. The last major attacks the quillboars had attempted ended years ago, and since then they'd gone into deep hiding.

"Spine Ridge," she said slowly. "Is that part of the Overgrowth now?"

The young orc shook his head. "We're farther south. Although the Overgrowth gives our village better hunting opportunities."

Deneth nodded. Yes, many areas the orcs lived had been improved by the Cataclysm when Deathwing tore himself from the earth, strange as that sounded.

In Durotar the Southfury River had burst free of its banks, flooding the low regions of the land, the clefts and ravines, and making the area much greener. In the Barrens many areas had inexplicably greened, even though they didn't have much more water than before. Plants simply began shooting up from the ground, growing faster than seemed natural. Some were definitely unnatural, vines that wrapped around unwary travelers and whipped them around frantically until they either crushed the life from their victim or were chopped through.

Because the land was richer and less harsh now many more orcs were free to leave off scraping in the dirt for food and become warriors. Those orcs made their way to Orgrimmar looking for glory.

And more still since Hellscream's call for all orcs to gather for war.

"Have the humans been making trouble in your area?" she asked.

He looked away. "No, that's farther north as well. By the time we heard about Camp Taurajo and sent orcs to help the cowards had already been pushed back."

She nodded slowly. It was about what she'd expected since returning from her mission to investigate the aftermath of the Cataclysm to the north. Garrosh was ramping up hostilities, and especially the undead in the Eastern Kingdoms were doing their part to put the Alliance on their back foot. And instead of standing up and fighting the Alliance was cowering down like a peon holding a shield overhead in a shower of arrows. The single real counterattack the Alliance had made was Camp Taurajo, and even then they'd come in timid and fled quickly. They hadn't even slaughtered the tauren there, just driven them away to let quillboars of all things do the dirty work.

The Alliance was weak. Their hearts weren't in this war. Which meant Garrosh's Horde would have to keep hitting them until they finally hit back.

Wiping the asses of these two whelps wasn't the most satisfying way to end her training, but the day was hot and it didn't look like she'd be finding any other challenges. She'd worked her weapon routines, she'd done her weights, it was time to call it a day.

Damn this inaction. Her force of grunts under her father's command were being held in Orgrimmar for longer than usual. As if waiting for something big. She could only hope it happened soon, because if she had to spend a few more days up on this hellish stone plateau holding herself back so she didn't seriously injure striplings she was going to have to kill someone.

"Get water," she said. "Keep drinking past the point you stop being thirsty, on a day like this."

The two males followed her over to the water barrel, which stood out in the sun growing unpleasantly tepid. But then, the sludge from the Southfury River since the goblins had begun their operations up north was nasty however you drank it.

Deneth tossed the ladle back into the barrel and made her way over to the trough beneath the pavilion, shucking off her sweaty armor and clothes as she went. The heavy plates were easy enough to untie, and she'd had plenty of practice with them, but the soaked linen and leather clung to her skin, making the process more annoying. In any case she was soon stripped and in the shade.

She spent a moment there with her arms outstretched and legs slightly spread, enjoying the delightful cooling sensation of a strong wind off the sea whisking the sweat from her skin. Then she drew a bucket from the trough and tossed her sweaty clothes into it. Her armor would stay in the shade and cool down, more bearable when she was finally ready to put it back on.

The few other warriors occupying the pavilion nodded her way. Not as respectfully as they might have, but then that pathetic sparring she'd suffered through wasn't anything to earn respect.

A lot of these warriors would've been kicked from the pavilion on a day when the training grounds were more crowded. And even now none of them dared use the trough like she was doing; it was a long ways to bring water from the Southfury River or the sea, and Orgrimmar peons had to be tasked with keeping the training grounds well watered.

Because of that most warriors who trained here could get water only for drinking. Deneth's rising prominence in Garrosh's Horde, and perhaps less prestigiously but more importantly, her father's role as an advisor to the Warchief, had afforded her the welcome luxury of water for washing after a long day's training in the punishing sun.

Before anything else Deneth beat her clothes against the outside of the trough, working the sweat stains from them and trying to get them as clean as possible. It had been a long day so she wasn't too fussy. When she was satisfied she tossed them out flat onto the hot rocks baking in the brutal Durotar sun, where they immediately began drying out. Then she used her bucket of water and a mostly clean rag to begin wiping herself down.

As she washed her two sparring companions finished up at the water barrel, and seeing her washing they came over to clean themselves as well, the younger one tugging off his borrowed armor as he approached.

"Nuh uh," Deneth said, shaking her head in warning. "You want to wash, the sea's a fifteen minute walk that way to dunk yourself in. Or you can go a half hour the other direction and draw water from the river."

The two orcs stopped, and the younger one pulled his shirt back down. "We've been working hard," he complained.

Deneth nodded, although a bit doubtfully. If they had she sure hadn't seen it. "And you've grown stronger, and perhaps learned a few useful things too. You can use the wash water when you're worthy."

The older male looked her over speculatively. He'd looked like he was working up the nerve to make a move since well before they'd first begun sparring, although he didn't have a hope on Azeroth or Draenor. "Maybe I'll prove my worthiness right now," he said.

The prospect didn't even excite her. The fool wanted to try for her now, after a morning of hard training? Sure, the sweat and sun got some orcs in the mood, and if both had tired themselves out equally it could be a good way to finish the day. But this male had barely been here an hour and was still mostly fresh.

Call Deneth old-fashioned, but she liked to be on equal footing when a male tried to pin her to the ground, rip off her clothes, and take her like a real orc should.

Even so her exhaustion wouldn't help this hayseed clod from a Barrens settlement find any better success. Didn't he remember just getting pummeled into the ground in a 1v2 that could only jokingly be called a match? She laughed in his face, turning away contemptuously. "Don't embarrass yourself, recruit."

After she finished washing she lounged in the shade among the other orcs, waiting for her clothes to dry. A few were telling stories of engagements with the Alliance on the western side of the Barren's Rift, and as she listened to their boasting she wondered if she shouldn't wait for it to cool down a little before continuing with the day's activities.

It was still barely noon, and probably wouldn't cool down for another few hours. Added to that her father thrashing in his bed across the room from her had made it hard to sleep the last few nights. With that in mind Deneth retrieved her clothes and laid on them in the shade to get some padding with her breastplate as a pillow, shifted around for the most comfortable position she could find on the hard stone, and settled down for a nap.

.

The Warchief's chamber quickly went silent when Garrosh Hellscream finally arrived, making Drazgh aware of the younger Mag'har's arrival from his seat on the bench. He stood with the others, more to see than in a show of respect.

Drazgh was surprised to see many of Hellscream's warlords accompanying him, called back from their positions on the front lines of engagements all over Kalimdor. Was that the explanation for Hellscream's inaction these last few weeks? If the Warchief had been waiting for all the pieces to fall into place Drazgh was willing to begrudge him the delay.

"Silence!" Hellscream snapped, quelling the last few murmured conversations. He strode through a crowd that quickly parted to let him pass, Gorehowl slung across his back even though there'd be little call to use it among allies in the center of Orgrimmar.

But then Hellscream got more use for the weapon as a symbol of his power these days than for any other purpose. The legendary axe of his father, Grom Hellscream, chieftain of the Warsong Clan and one of the fiercest fighters Drazgh had ever known. It served to remind his detractors of who his father was.

A pathetic claim to honor, riding on the shoulders of another. Almost like the blood rights humans bowed to. The son of a chieftain was a warrior just like any other until he earned his place at the head of his clan. Even the taurens understood that.

Hellscream took the two steps up to his Warchief's chair, pulled Gorehowl free and set it to the side, and slumped down into the cushioned seat. Though he did not sit still, fidgeting slightly like a naughty child. He always seemed so full of pent-up energy these days, shoulders slightly bowed under the weight of the horns of the demon Mannoroth that his father had killed, formed into elaborate shoulderguards.

Drazgh would be the first to revere Grom for his achievements, not the least of which being trying to maintain the glory of the new Horde. His single failing had been bringing the Horde too close to the precipice of demon worship that had dominated the Old Horde. When he and his Warsong Clan drank Mannoroth's blood to defeat Cenarius he stepped over that precipice entirely.

And now here stood his son, laying claim to a victory in Northrend won by in large part by Dranosh Saurfang in death, and by Varok Saurfang in silent service. Neither challenged Hellscream's claim to all the glory of defeating the Lich King and the Scourge. And now, as if he could not be secure in that glory, he flaunted the horns of Mannoroth and his father's axe to remind the Horde of his heritage.

Laying full claim to successes he had a hand in was one thing, but trying to usurp the glory of his father to cement his power left a bad taste in Drazgh's mouth.

Hellscream abruptly stood, as if deciding his words would have more impact if he towered over the group. The image was lessened by Malkorok standing just behind the chair as still as a statue, towering over his Warchief the way Hellscream towered over the others.

"The time has come," the Warchief said simply. At these words a hundred lungs expelled air in a collective sigh. Drazgh felt his heart begin to pound in anticipation.

Finally.

"The peace talks fell through. The Alliance dogs tried to murder us at the parlay they called, although Thrall was willing to accept their claim of Twilight's Hammer betrayal. Even so no concessions were made. The war is ours to begin.

"It already threatens. The conflicts at our borders heat up. My warlords have led selective raids to probe Alliance defenses and determine the best places to strike. Three weeks ago the humans attempted one weak retaliation, slaughtering a village full of tauren hunters, and fled congratulating themselves on a mighty victory.

"It will be their last."

Hellscream looked around, eyes narrowing. "I have prepared, my warriors. We all have. Setting plans into motion, marshaling forces, gathering supplies. When I took the mantle of Warchief I swore to do what Thrall never could, and that is take the Horde from the point of licking our wounds and rebuilding to something strong, to when we finally take that strength and show it to the world!"

Hellscream bounded down off his dais and motioned, and near the vissing wall orcs were pushed aside as a group of warriors carried in a table with a detailed map of Kalimdor painted on it. As they set it up Hellscream paced in the small space in front of it, eyes gleaming.

"Thrall led too timidly. All half measures and appeasement. Trying to keep the humans happy while he kept us crouched in this miserable rock burrow. Every time he showed a spine he immediately turned around and hastened to reassure his precious humans that all was well.

"But no more. Thrall has stepped down, seeing fit to put his confidence in me as is my due. And now that I have command I mean to prosecute this war in full. No more half measures. We will attack on every contested border, gather every scrap of supplies, every weapon, every recruit we can lay hands on and throw them into the meat grinder. We will catch the Alliance sleeping, focused on a mad dragon and a handful of nihilistic fools when the real threat, the threat they've ignored thanks to Thrall's lulling words, finally rises against them!"

With an impatient growl the Warchief abruptly shoved aside one of the warriors and shooed the others away from the table, its position still slightly skewed. "While we reinforce all our borders, the first strike will fall on the enemy my father first set us against, and enemy worthy of us and who we would've crushed had not circumstances taken the opportunity from our hands."

Hellscream thrust a blunt brown finger down, to the west of Orgrimmar. "The night elves. A worthy foe to test ourselves against as we continue to build strength for what's coming. Their forces are currently divided, far too many to the north at their World Tree, facing the threat of the Twilight's Hammer cult. Their lands are open to us if we strike quickly, and I mean to make that strike a hammer blow that will drive them all the way back to Darkshore! My brothers, I declare the start of the Ashenvale Offensive!"

A few spontaneous cheers rose from the gathered orcs, and Drazgh joined them. Whatever he felt for Hellscream, he was eager to get back into battle again. Being an advisor was a dull thing when your Warchief sat in Orgrimmar and the battle went on without you.

As if Hellscream heard his cheer specifically the son of Grom turned and looked directly at Drazgh. "Elder, come forward," he commanded.

Surprised, Drazgh stepped into the cleared space and saluted.

"Time is of the essence, Elder," the Warchief said, eyes gleaming. "I mean to move quickly, but it will still be close to a week before I can finish mustering, training, and equipping our forces. When those preparations are complete I mean to push my army hard and fast into Ashenvale. I don't want to be slowed by minor resistance."

Drazgh nodded. A thousand orcs or a hundred thousand could be equally slowed by a handful of enemies who knew the terrain.

"Drazgh the Terror. You served me well in Northrend, setting your warriors against the vrykul and laughing at their size and ferocity. I call upon you again, to take a small force of my best warriors and drive the night elves before you. Clear the rabble away so my army can pass through with no distractions."

Drazgh straightened, saluting once more. "I accept this honor, my Warchief. I will push the elves in blood and fear all the way back to Astranaar itself."

"Good." Hellscream nodded in dismissal and Drazgh stepped back among the other advisors. More than a few gave him looks of envy for the role he would be playing. First blood was a great honor for any warrior.

Also a chance at first pick of any loot. Drazgh suspected that was one of the main reasons Hellscream had selected him. In the Northrend campaign loot had had a tendency of not reaching the Warchief's coffers the way it should. The fault didn't lie with any one race, and even the orcs hadn't been as forthcoming as they should. It set a problematic trend in any campaign, and said more about the honor of the warriors who were withholding loot.

Drazgh and his Dek'Terror, the Bringers of Terror, had been one of the few exceptions. The Warchief had gotten his full share of the vrykul loot when Drazgh's own share in the campaign had been finished, and as reward his warriors had received extra shares and Drazgh himself had been afforded his new home on the rise above Orgrimmar.

Hellscream had produced models from somewhere, little cleverly worked and painted representations of orcs and other races, which he was setting across the map to mark troop movements. "My warleaders and generals, your orders will come more specifically once I have conferred with my warlords. But for now go forth and gather your men. Gather your weapons, your armor, your blacksmiths and camp followers. See to your beasts of war. And recruit generously from the refugees. At my summons the might of the Orcish nation has gathered here to war, and I leave it to any of you who can shape that raw strength into a worthy blade to take as many new recruits as you can manage. Now begone to your duties."

Drazgh immediately began pushing for the door, and acknowledging his need most of the other orcs cleared the way for him. He hurried along the crowded streets of the Drag, a cleft in deep shadow with cliffs rising on both sides, to the west barracks in the Valley of Honor. His veterans had been quartered there for the last month while they waited his pleasure.

If they were anything like his daughter, they hadn't waited patiently.

In the kennels near the ponds at the bottom of the valley the wolves were howling, sensing a sudden excitement in the orcs moving purposefully at their tasks. Drazgh had hurried, but other, younger orcs had still arrived quicker. The barracks were already in turmoil when he pushed inside, through the recruits filling the front sleeping rooms, and to where his veterans slept in the places of honor.

Ursug, one of his blood guards, hurried over as soon as he spotted Drazgh. "Lok-Regar, General," he growled. He put extra emphasis on the first word: he'd been ready for orders for a long time, now.

Drazgh let a rare smile show itself. "Lok-Narash, Blood Guard."

Ursug stiffened with surprise. "It's about damn time," he growled. "What are we readying weapons for?"

With his officer trailing behind Drazgh continued into the veterans quarters. He pitched his voice so all his warriors could hear. "The Warchief has given the Dek'Terror a singular honor. He aims to strike at the night elves and utterly defeat them. We will have the pleasure of striking first and clearing away their scouts and sentinels before the arrival of the main army."

Ursug immediately roared, inciting the other warriors to join in. "How many orcs, General?"

Drazgh frowned thoughtfully. "Not too many. For this task orcs of skill we can trust will each be worth a dozen warriors. Two hundred. Draw from Garrosh's Northrend veterans and any of the troll hunters and spearthrowers still quartered here."

Ursug nodded. "Sentinels. They'll be up in trees. Poor targets."

Drazgh grimaced. "Pick out orcs who are good with throwing weapons. Also requisition some goblin munitions, anything that can be chucked up to force the elves down. We'll also want firestarting and logging gear for any entrenched night elf positions."

"With any luck we'll surprise them and catch them on the ground," Ursug said.

Drazgh shook his head. "They live in the trees where they can so we'll have to deal with them. But at least their outposts and villages are on the ground. We'll be doing most of the fighting there anyway."

"Aye, General." Ursug's enthusiasm had barely waned at hearing they were going against archers up in trees. His orcs were itching for action. "Permission to broach a barrel so the warriors can celebrate."

Drazgh sighed. "Granted. But I want them ready to go in the morning, all gear in passable shape and provisions distributed and packed."

"Zug zug."

For a moment he frowned, thinking, then sighed. "And Hellscream has given his orders. Go through the refugees and find any that aren't worthless, up to a hundred. We'll quarter them here while we're gone. And start putting them to work on our return. Keep Kagaz and Loghir behind to herd them and get them started on their training."

His blood guard scowled. "A hundred dirt stabbers and pig farmers? We might as well recruit peons."

Drazgh shook his head and continued on to the little nook he kept out for doing work at the barracks. It was stacked with a depressing amount of reports and orders. "They'll be veterans by the time I'm done with them. It's going to be a long war."

"Is it, General?" Ursug seemed pleased by the thought.

He snorted. "Hellscream means to battle the world. It'll either be a long war or a terribly short one." He settled in his chair and picked up a letter sealed with Hellscream's eye. "If you can spare anyone, find Deneth and get her out here."

The blood guard showed his tusks in amusement. "Maybe I'll go give her the news myself. The way she's been climbing the walls and starting trouble she'll probably leap ten feet at the news we're finally getting out of this pit."

Drazgh had been reading the set of orders as his officer talked, and when he finished he scowled. "Not you." He shoved the paper at the veteran orc.

Ursug caught it and squinted it over doubtfully. He could read some, but it was an effort for him. "What's it say?"

"That you're heading to the laundry."

"New uniforms? Some of the lads could use them."

"I wish." Drazgh shook his head. What a waste of time and resources. "New tabards. Hellscream wants us in his colors."

.

Deneth scowled at the hunk of dried meat and loaf of pasty seget bread. "This is a civilian's ration. For a _single_ person. What part of two warrior's rations was hard to understand?"

The peon's eyes darted to the nearest Kor'kron guard watching over the distribution of food stores. Smart to look for help from a real warrior; Deneth could snap his scrawny neck like a twig if she wanted. "Warchief's orders. Just passed down. Starting today rations go to officers in the Warchief's army. Only civilians collect rations here anymore, and you only get a week to either sign up or leave before your rations get cut off."

"So what is this, a measure to clear out the refugees? He called them here in the first place!"

The peon swallowed. Warriors could get away with talking about the decisions of the Warchief, but peons would get the rod for saying the same types of things. "You'll have to go to your barracks to claim your share." The scrawny orc cringed slightly and took a breath. "And I'll need what I just gave you back."

Deneth closed her fist around the worthless bread, crushing it to fragments. "I haven't eaten since morning, and I've spent the day doing something _useful_. You can have the bread but I'm keeping the meat." As she spoke she eyed the Kor'kron, daring him to step in. she was wearing her full armor, helmet included, and Render was strapped comfortably across her back.

But aside from sharing a smirk with her at the discomfiture of the peon the elite warrior didn't seem to care.

Deneth gnawed on the meat as she pushed her way through the crowd towards Grommash Hold. Her father attended the Warchief as little as possible, but he sometimes had to stay late managing Horde business. Deneth didn't understand exactly what it was he did that took so much organizing, but all the papers he shuffled around gave her a headache just looking at them.

The crowds were more restless than usual as she made her way through. And the closer she got to the hold the thicker they became.

Was it time to read the Warchief's decrees already? How much of her time was she wasting trying to get from one place to another these days?

It looked as if that was exactly what was happening, though. In the massive cleared space between the hold, the merchant houses, and the inns the crowd was crushing, impossible to move through without throwing elbows and shoulders. But the orcs around her were mostly silent, watching an older orc climb his way up to the small platform just over the entrance to the hold.

For some reason he was flanked by two Kor'kron. Actually, now that Deneth looked around she saw a lot of Kor'kron circling the crowd and massing at the entrance to the hold. Was there a special decree to be read today?

The Elder stepped out to the edge of the platform and held out his arms for quiet, silencing the last of the murmurs. "Soldiers of the Horde and members, remember today in the tales you tell your children! For on this day we go to war!"

Deneth raised her voice with the others in a deafening roar. The Elder looked somewhat impatient, but even if he'd wanted to keep going no one would've heard him.

When the noise finally died down somewhat he tried to speak over it. "Our Warchief intends a full attack upon our enemies, without hesitation and without quarter. It will not end until the armies of the humans and their pet races in the so-called Alliance are crushed beneath our feet!"

Another roar. This decree might take a while to read.

As if someone else had had the same thought a deafening set of _thrum_s rolled over the noise as warriors rang half a dozen kodo horns. The sound continued on and on, forcing the shouters into silence, and when they stopped the air seemed to hang empty.

"In order to fight this war total commitment is demanded of all members of the Horde! By order of Garrosh Hellscream, Chieftain of the Orc Clans and Warchief of the Horde, all members of the Horde are to take part in the war effort, from the oldest crone to the youngest child. You will work, you will fight, and you will bleed at our Warchief's pleasure. Any who have not yet taken the oath to become soldiers of the Horde must do so within the week.

"Any excess resources are demanded to aid in this effort, and those found stockpiling will be viewed as traitors. We will win this war through the courage, strength, and sacrifice of every member." The Elder took a deep breath, looked around, and then bellowed. "For the Horde!"

"FOR THE HORDE!" The assembled crowd roared back, the noise deafening for nearly a minute as the roar went on and on.

The horns rang again, shivering excitedly, triumphantly, through the air. "Go to your homes now," the Elder called. "Think hard on what you can do for the war. And in the morning go where you are needed and speak to the Warchief's agents to set yourself to work. Lok'tar ogar, my brothers!"

The crowd thinned surprisingly fast, but even so it was almost fifteen minutes before Deneth could push her way clear of it. Her armor and Render strapped to her back were intimidating enough to keep most people in the crowd docile, but a few of the braver males growled at her. Their noses didn't fare well against a gauntleted fist thrown by someone who knew how.

The Drag was surprisingly crowded, and she wasn't the only orc making for the Valley of Honor. After that decree she'd be surprised if there was a single foot of spare sleeping space in the barracks come morning.

Who wouldn't want to be part of the war, now that it had arrived? Refugees had been swearing themselves into the army this entire time, but some had held back, maybe wanting to return to their farms if the Warchief allowed it. Now all would be joining.

And those who'd waited to long, especially the younger, older, or weaker orcs, would be turned away and pressed into less honorable work for the war.

At the entrance to the Valley of Honor several officers were blocking the way, filtering through those who had a purpose there and directing those who didn't to where they should go to find one. Ursug was there as well, and he immediately made for her.

"Limbrender," the grizzled veteran growled. "I've had orcs out looking for you, but small surprise they didn't find you in this chaos."

Deneth quickly saluted. "Blood Guard," she said respectfully. "I just heard the news."

"Oh just barely?" Ursug replied sarcastically. "Glad you're keeping your ear to the ground." He chucked a square of cloth at her, hitting her in the chest. He held half a dozen more in his arms, and behind the assembled officers several more stacks were piled up. Deneth unfolded it to find a tabard blazoned with a bloodred eye. "Put it on."

Deneth complied, looking down at the symbol across her chest and belly. The eye of Hellscream was upon her? "What does this tabard signify?"

"It signifies you're part of Garrosh's Horde!" the officer barked. He shook another one out and flipped it over to show the Horde symbol on the back. "Our Warchief wants it clear to the recruits who they fight for. Problem?"

Deneth shook her head. It didn't seem necessary to show any orc who they were fighting for . . . even the thickest peon could figure it out. But maybe the eye would be intimidating in combat.

"The word's out that the Warchief has been planning a major offensive push through night elf lands and he's finally ready to carry it out. Your father will be leading the first foray into Ashenvale. You have the honor of joining him, of course." The Blood Guard cuffed her sharply, even that punishing blow nearly unfelt in her armor. "Get your gear, grunt! The Dek'Terror are gathering in the west barracks. We move out in the morning."

"Lok'tar ogar!" Deneth yelled, sprinting past him and back out towards her father's home.

Her excitement was shared by the rest of the city as she made her way along crowded streets. Orcs cheered and sang, children wrestled and fought with their fists, and the push through the throng was more vigorous than usual. She even saw two orcs mating in the clear area between two buildings, although it took a few moments to realize they weren't simply wrestling. They were fairly evenly matched in strength, and in their excitement their struggles were frantic and they weren't getting anywhere.

War! No more scouting, no more minor skirmishes that brought no real honor because they weren't allowed to acknowledge they'd happened. No more fighting alongside the Alliance for "the greater good" and watching half those joint efforts end in pitched battles when one side or the other lost control of their troops and attacked their allies.

She would set Render against Ashenvale night elves and show why it had been given the name. She'd paint her armor with blood, and taste the strength of a dozen fallen foes. She'd show her strength so no one could deny it, and step out from beneath her father's famous name to rise on the shoulders of her own deeds.

At home she immediately stripped out of her armor and went to work repairing and cleaning it. She changed her city clothes for the sturdy leathers she wore on campaigns, put on and fitted her armor for longterm wear, and belted her axes at her waist and double-checked Render's ties along her back, making sure it hung comfortably and could be quickly and easily drawn.

Then she drew it, settled down on her bed with a whetstone and oil, and began sharpening its wickedly curved single blade, first one side then the other. Weeks of long inactivity had given her plenty of time to tend to the weapon, and it was already sharp enough to split hairs. But she spent a little more time on it, wanting to make sure it was in perfect condition.

Her father came in as she was making her final preparations, gave a brief and improving inspection of her weapons and armor, and set about his own preparations. "Just what should we expect in Ashenvale?" she asked him. "Not another minor raid then return, right?" The decree had said all-out war, but decrees had said that before.

Especially under the previous Warchief.

Drazgh glanced her way, still running his hands along Terror's haft to check for flaws or weaknesses. The warhammer was almost as old as he was, and had seen nearly all his battles. Even so its broad, heavy rectangular head and long haft were attentively repaired and maintained, and in truth the weapon was far less dented and scarred than its owner. "A full assault," he said quietly. "We'll push until the night elves manage to stop us or we reach the western sea."

She grinned, showing her tusks. "I'll wash the blood off there, then. A nice dip to cool me down from the fighting."

He nodded, seeming intent on his task.

Seeing it Deneth lost a bit of her enthusiasm. "What's wrong, father? This is what we've waited for."

Drazgh finally looked up, eyes flashing. "Yes, it is. Enthusiasm is for the young, daughter, don't let my lack dampen yours. My anticipation shows itself in other ways."

"Then I'll go find some peers to share it. See you at the west barracks." Deneth gathered up her pack and a final few necessary possessions and provisions, slung it across her shoulder opposite where Render rose ready to be freed, and stepped out into the cooling afternoon air, the sun golden over the cliffs, shadows inching along to engulf the city as it set.

Deneth made her way back to the Valley of Honor and through the screening officers to the west barracks, which was far more crowded than she'd ever seen it with the surge of recruits Garrosh's decree today had brought in. It took her a few moments to push through the throng to the more prestigious-and less crowded-rooms where the Dek'Terror veterans bunked. Here the familiar faces were equally excited but more reserved. They were checking their gear, engaging in less disruptive contests of strength, or speaking of past battles and glory. A cask of ale had been broached in celebration of the day, and more than a few were guzzling mugs as they spoke.

She settled down among them, welcome and comfortable in their company. They all knew her reputation, and almost all had fought beside her as she'd built it. She belonged here as surely as warriors twice her age.

But she'd risen above too few of them. Deneth had proven herself in dozens of conflicts, countless brawls and challenges, but had never really had the chance to truly test herself in battle and rise as a leader. Where she belonged.

Now was the time.


	3. First Blood

Hey guys,

Got the story going full swing, with a lot of elements planned out and written. But one thing I'm somewhat spotty on is the Horde vs. Alliance conflicts in Cata and MoP. I played through Cataclysm enough to get a lot of the PvE story in the various zones, but unfortunately Blizzard seemed to only tell the HvA battles in lower level questlines and Warcraft novels and I didn't pick much of it up.

So let me know of any cool battles that took place during this time period. I'll try to reference them in the story to flesh it out better, and if some fit in well I might even incorporate them into the story itself.

Also depending on how busy Thanksgiving is with family stuff I might update a bit extra. The holidays are a great time to get more vie—I mean, give you the chance to enjoy more of the story.

I'd also like to do more interaction with readers. I was thinking of starting a Q&A type thing, possibly even accepting requests to do one-time shots of Azeroth stories or events that you thought were cool but weren't really delved into too deeply so you'd like to see more of them. Or parodies of various races/factions that you'd like to see poked fun at. Or even side stories of some of my characters you like. I'll probably gather requests and do a poll or something of the sort.

So yeah, get in contact. I can't be writing all the time (just most of it), so if I have some spare time I'd love to do more than just post chapters every week.

One final thing. Okay, so I'm usually not a fan of shameless self promoting, but I've noticed all my favorite Youtube personalities do a fair bit of begging for likes and favorites, etc. It's their bread and butter I guess, but I'm just interested in getting my work out there. Most of my new readers are people who were referred by a friend or who were looking at a fanfiction member they liked who had my books on their favorites.

So review and favorite this shit. Tell all your friends. BECOME A VIKING TODAY!

Chapter Two

First Blood

The forests of Ashenvale began immediately on the west side of the Southfury River. Their lush green and purple undergrowth and the enormous trees that thrust up into the sky straight and powerful both provided a stark contrast to the sparse growth and squalid hovels on the other side of the river, where Orgrimmar squatted within its barren cliffs.

It was an odd quirk of nature that the landmass of Durotar, nearer the sea than Ashenvale, was so barren in comparison. In fact lack of water wasn't so much a problem as was too much water at the wrong time: every winter the storms howled in off the sea, scouring the barren rock of the landmass clean of topsoil. Then in the summer the rains passed right over, only rarely falling, while the harsh sun scorched the few plants that managed to claw their way free of the stone.

It was almost enough to make one believe a nature goddess smiled down on the night elves, denying the orcs the summer rains they needed and sending them onward to the already lush lands deeper within the continent.

Ironically, the cliffs Orgrimmar had been built among and atop of were part of the reason the far side of the river was so lush. They weathered the brunt of the harsh winter storms, allowing the beginnings of the forest to flourish beyond their leeward side. They also dragged the rain-heavy summer clouds downward enough to make them drop some of their load on the far side of the river.

Drazgh might've been bitter about this capricious twist of nature if the far side of the river didn't belong to his people. Now the rains that made these tall trees flourish aided the orcs, rather than taunting them.

Two hundred warriors clustered around him. Dek'Terror, veterans of the Northrend campaign loyal to Hellscream, and a small cluster of tauren druids and tauren and troll shamans. Munitions and supplies were piled in a dump off to one side, ready to be loaded. They had been disguised to look like supplies being sent to the lumber camp. As if waiting to carry those supplies onward a dozen logging wagons commandeered from the Warsong lumber camp waited in a line behind him.

This strip of forest along the river was Horde territory, and few sentinels dared to enter it or survived to escape with any knowledge they might glean from their spying. Farther west the Warsong Clan's lumber operations had left the forest a barren wasteland of stumps and wood chips for mile after mile. But Hellscream's foresight, and the foresight of Thrall before him, had preserved this area from the logging. It was a reserve, held untouched in case the night elves ever pushed them away from their lumber camp and back to the Southfury river itself. While it remained they would never be completely denied the lumber they so desperately needed.

It would be unnecessary very, very soon.

Drazgh shrugged his shoulders to test the ties of his armor and the way it hung, then strode over to the closest lumber wagon and vaulted on top of it, clashing a gauntleted fist against a vambrace to draw the attention of his warriors. Most had been waiting for just this moment, and complete silence settled almost immediately as they waited his word.

"Ashenvale forest," he growled, sweeping his arm over the trees towering above them. "Green, isn't it?" There were a few uncertain grunts of agreement. "Makes for a new sight after our bleak farms and rock hovels in Durotar. How many of you have experience fighting in these woods?"

A good number of the warriors bellowed and brandished weapons. Drazgh nodded in approval. "Good. Then you've seen what I've seen of them. Rich land to grow plentiful crops and raise fat boars. Abundant game in the trees, waiting to be hunted. More lumber than we could use in a lifetime, to build true homes and make everything we need."

Drazgh fell silent for a moment, and in that silence a soft wind whispered quietly through the leaves overhead. "Durotar is bleak and barren," he finally said. "It is harsh and gives nothing. There we scrabble in the dirt like peons, struggling to survive. Our children starve, our mates despise our weakness. And all the while the night elves trap us in, claiming all these rich lands for themselves. For the sake of peace our former Warchief let them. Durotar has been our prison."

Drazgh abruptly roared, ripping Terror from his back and shaking it overhead. "What do we fight for, warriors?"

The answering bellow as almost synchronized. "Honor and glory!" his warriors answered. Among them his daughter brandished her fearsome axe, roaring along with the rest.

Again he nodded in approval. "Yes. And we shall have them. But we fight for more than that . . . we fight for our very future! Our new Warchief saw the suffering of his people, saw the way our enemies were penning us inside the wasteland of Durotar like cattle, keeping us weak and small in number. He saw that by letting the elves cage us they were keeping us from our destiny. The land we needed to grow numerous and strong, the resources to raise our offspring to be the warriors they deserve to be. But now Garrosh Hellscream has opened the doors of that cage. We can finally have what's been denied us all these years!"

This was met by another roar of approval. Drazgh pointed Terror west, towards their unseen enemy. "This land doesn't belong to the night elves. It belongs to us! The possessions they have gathered, withholding their prosperity, belong to us! The bountiful crops, the fat boars, the plentiful game and the lumber for our homes. They are ours, we need only take them!"

He waited for the cheers to die down. It took a long time. "And in recognition of this bounty, a future finally within our grasp, the Warchief has seen fit to be generous. As the first to taste the richness of this land we've been promised double the usual share of spoils!"

This was met with the greatest cheer of all.

Drazgh let his hammer drop, so in control of his warriors that their cries quieted in time with its fall. By the time its head rested on the ground the forest was once again silent. "We have the strength to take what belongs to us," he said quietly. "But do not dismiss our enemies. The night elves have held this land for millennia. Most of them have walked these woods for hundreds, even thousands of years. They are quick and deadly, and if we are not cautious their arrows will take us and we will never see where they came from. So we must be swift, we must be vigilant, and we must give them no time to recover and prepare a defense."

He motioned to the wagons around him. "Prepare yourselves as we've planned, my warriors! The wait has finally ended and bloodshed is upon us. Bathe this forest in blood for our future, for honor, for glory! _For the Horde_!"

"FOR THE HORDE!" the two hundred raiders bellowed back, perhaps even loud enough to give warning to their unseen enemies.

Drazgh strode to the front of the lumber wagon and flattened himself on its bed, the area around him filling with the warriors who leapt up onto it behind him. As soon as it was full the peons who'd sullenly waited nearby began covering them with the war gear and provisions disguised as supplies for the loggers, as if bringing another return load to the lumber camp.

Drazgh's hands gripped Terror tight where it lay across his chest, and he willed them to remember their strength, the strength that hadn't failed him in all his decades as a warrior. And he waited as the wagon creaked into motion beneath him.

.

The Warsong lumber camp slumbered in the afternoon lull, goblins and peons lounging around eating and drinking, fortifying themselves for several more hours of hard work felling logs and stepping up output.

The lumber camp had been an unsightly blemish on the uneasy truce between night elf and orc for years. Officially it didn't exist, or the Alliance would be forced to formally step in and do something about it. Typical of Azeroth's races, to bend and accept an insult to avoid combat. As long as the Warsong loggers didn't take too many trees too quickly the night elf sentinels patrolled the border as if the logging camp wasn't there, although you could sometimes hear their cries of anger when a beloved memory was found uprooted and destroyed.

At least so Deneth had heard. She didn't spend much time in the lumber camps.

But she did spend some. Over the years violence _had_ sprung up along the gulch the lumber camp nestled within. Sometimes it was orc warriors slipping into the trees by day, looking for excitement. The sentinels knew these woods too well for this to be a good idea, and even in broad daylight those adventurous orcs seldom returned to tell the tale.

More often it was the night elves, their indignation at having their forest defiled finally spilling over at some temporary surge in the Warsong's lumbering efforts, who would sneak in at night and sabotage equipment or kill workers in their sleep. This always prompted a retaliatory raid on the nearest night elven outpost, Silverwing Hold.

At times the violence escalated into an all-out border war, with dozens of warriors from both sides rushing to the conflict zone to push the attackers back. Some came for honor, some came at Hellscream's behest, or Thrall before him. But either way the fighting was brutal for a time.

Deneth had taken part in those disputes a few times since she'd come of age. Enough to respect the night elves as dangerous enemies and feel the thrill that came with facing death against a worthy foe.

It was odd to think that any night elves would be out there right now, watching or lying in wait. The peons shirked like normal, grateful for the break. The goblins gambled and drank as they waited for their machines to cool down enough to start them up again. The overseers inspected the morning shift's results and planned the afternoon shift's work.

And beneath the scattered debris and underbrush, behind every machine and stack of logs, orc raiders hid in wait. Dropped there from the lumber wagons with view of their movements obscured by goblin machines or the wagons themselves.

The sentinels had to be out there. With the hostile end of the peace talks they would be expecting trouble, or maybe planning on starting some themselves. They might even be vigilant enough to see how every wagon that went out with a load of logs came back riding just as low on its springs, heavy with a load of hidden warriors.

As was usual with their nocturnal people they'd rather be slumbering during the daytime if they could manage it. Day was when they slept, when they were weakest. Horde warriors might raid other enemies at night, but only a fool would attack night elves in their own forests in the dark.

They wouldn't even see the arrows coming, let alone where they had come from.

Orcs and night elves both knew this. Both expected the fight to take place during the day, just as usual. One side couldn't hope to do anything else, which meant the other side had to get used to it as well.

Because of that Deneth felt tense when the signal came for them to move out. It came silently, not like the usual warhorns or drums to beat the rhythm of their charge. Her father hadn't truly hoped to catch the sentinels off guard, but he had his warriors go silent just in case.

When she saw the peons waving their shovels around over their heads, ludicrously unconvincing in their subterfuge of just being at play, she immediately darted out from beneath the cast-off sawblade she'd hid behind, reaching up to make sure Render was loose in its ties and ready to be drawn.

Around her the other orcs of the raiding party streamed out, across the cleared ground towards the forbidding dark twilight of the dense woods not a hundred yards ahead. There were no bellows, no war cries. It felt wrong to her, not like an actual attack at all. Sure, not quite as shifty as sneaking in among sleeping lumberjacks and slitting their throats, but it still left a sour taste in her mouth.

Fighting these purple elves would feel much more honorable if they were on a flat field somewhere, waiting to be charged. But then again they would hardly be as big a challenge if they were.

As she loped along, skirting giant stumps and leaping over random sticks and piles of wood chips, Deneth kept her eyes peeled on the trees overhead, the nearest thickets of underbrush. Any of them could be hiding a night elf, or they could be lining the canopy overhead like a murder of storm crows waiting to pounce. She'd seen the creatures spring from places that shouldn't have been able to hide them, their dusky skin fading into the bark and leaves of their homeland's plants and nearly making them invisible until they moved.

Of course they'd had plenty of practice hiding in these woods. The night elves who'd been fighting longer than Deneth had been alive were the inexperienced ones.

Some had been fighting nearly as long as the _world_ had been alive.

The heat of the day sank into a cool, moist dimness only a few steps beneath the trees. The ground underfoot was damp and choked with plants, most of which she couldn't identify, and they made her footing difficult as she continued.

The forest was dim and still around her, exuding a sleeping watchfulness that made the back of her neck itch as if thousands of eyes rested upon her. There was no hiss of arrows, no screams of pain from injured warriors. Could it be the night elves truly were sleeping and her father's stratagems weren't in vain?

Her fellow warriors spread out around her, familiar faces from among the Dek'Terror and unfamiliar veterans of the Northrend campaign. The forest was so dense that it was difficult to move in a tight group as Deneth would've preferred, but in a way their scattered formation was also beneficial. More angles from which to see incoming arrows, more area covered that would allow them to surround and isolate any sentinels that dared to attack them.

What if they didn't dare? Would she and her brothers and sisters in battle sprint all the way to the Felfarran River and the nominal hard boundary between Horde and Alliance lands? Would they stumble to its banks, exhausted and embarrassed, only to find that behind them the lumber camp had been attacked and its laborers massacred? Was her first true task as a warrior going to end in humiliation?

Somewhere in the trees above an owl hooted.

Deneth's slowed to a cautious trot, eyes darting through the dense tree canopies overhead. Owls were nocturnal creatures, just like the night elves that loved them so. They were also the favored spies of sentinels. A logical reason why they'd be out at midday.

From the trees ahead those warriors who'd managed a quicker pace than her through the dense growth, who hadn't slowed cautiously at the owl's hoot, began to yell in pain, call out warnings, and bellow challenges. Should she have warned them? That would have broken the silence, disobeying her father's orders and possibly ruining the surprise of their assault. Neither option seemed satisfactory, but the decision was in the past. All she could do now was speed her pace to aid her embattled companions.

Fortune and caution worked hand in hand in her favor this day. With her eyes roving the obscuring leaves overhead Deneth was fortunate to see the arrow that came for her from a long way off, so far up in the trees that it must've just barely been loosed.

Old orc veterans told stories of dodging arrows, or parrying them with their weapons. Blocking Deneth could believe, if the shield was already in place, but in her experience most of the feats the old ones boasted of were flat-out impossible. Even seeing the arrow from a distance only gave her enough time to twist, so instead of hitting her breastplate head on the heavy broadhead shaft glanced off at an angle.

Even so the blow was enough to knock her off her feet, especially as she skidded through mouldering leaves at the last second. Those huge night elf bows shot arrows the size of small spears, with a draw weight so heavy some lesser races couldn't even wield them. A glancing blow from that arrow, through her thick breastplate, felt like being struck with a warhammer.

And there would be another one coming within seconds.

Deneth looked around wildly and caught sight of a troll headhunter nearby. The spearthrower had seen her hit, but he couldn't tell where the arrow had come from and his head jerked frantically this way and that in search of the source. Deneth whistled sharply to draw his attention and pointed at the spot she'd first seen the shaft. "There!"

The troll's keen eyes darted up to the branch she'd indicated, and he must've seen something worth aiming for because he took two powerful steps forward and arched backwards, uncoiling to send his heavy spear hissing up into the treetops.

The spear flew harmlessly past and started to arc down, but the leafy canopy it tore through rustled and a sentinel appeared from the clump of branches, leaping aside from the attack. Like most sentinels Deneth had encountered this one wore little in the trees that were her home. A leather breastplate molded tightly to her figure with a flap to protect her crotch and upper legs, beneath the armor a flimsy silken shift visible for a moment, and leather bracers intended more for archery than for protecting from enemy weapons.

Unfortunately for the night elf her dodging leap took her out into thin air. With a yelp she flailed, barely grasping the branch she'd been standing on, and after a few swings started limberly pulling herself back up. There was a swish of branches as her heavy bow made its way to the ground, dropped in her evasion.

The troll's second spear found a stationary, highly visible target. Hard to miss. It struck the female night elf in the torso with a meaty _thud_, tearing her hands free of the branch and sending her plummeting to the ground, where she landed on top of the spear transfixing her. The sound of it snapping cracked sharply in the air, a grim counterpoint to the sentinel's boneless flop when she landed. For a moment the splintering sound shivered in the air among the noises of her fellow warriors fighting, weapons clashing, and screaming.

Deneth pushed to her feet and darted for the nearest tree, shaken. Her new Hellscream tabard was torn along the left breast, right over her heart, and the armor beneath had a small dent and a long scratch out to the side where the armor-piercing arrow had glanced off. It wouldn't have taken much, much at all, for that arrow to have struck a mortal wound.

"Damn elf cracked mah best spear," the troll grumbled as he darted forward to retrieve the broken spearpoint. "Three silver from da goblin dat sold it ta me."

Deneth wove through the trees, trying to stay behind cover, and found a hidden position close to the troll. Staying by someone who could hit enemies at a range with heavy spears seemed like a good idea. "I'll buy you a new one," she said. "It kept a second arrow from me, didn't it?"

The troll grinned over at her. "I'll hold ya ta it, girl." Without another word he slipped sideways towards a patch of underbrush, and Deneth bit back an oath when he disappeared completely.

Trolls had more than a little practice moving through woods. Jungles and dense Eastern Kingdom forests, mostly, but it seemed the ancient woods of Ashenvale were no challenge to this one.

Since following the troll was going to be impossible Deneth had little choice but to move on. She cautiously slipped from her hiding place, never once taking her eyes off the tree branches above, and loped towards the sounds of fighting, of her fellow warriors screaming, up ahead.

An explosion rocked the forest up ahead, a ball of fire up in the trees that seemed to do nothing but light some branches on fire. Her father would've had no desire to surrender the glory of this raid to spellcasters, so they'd brought no mages with them. That meant the explosion had to be goblin munitions, and her people were still unfamiliar with the armaments provided by the newest members of the Horde. Perhaps the explosion up ahead had been aimed at a specific target, but its throwers inexperience had caused him to miss.

Deneth had a few sticks of the goblin EZ-Thro dynamite in her pack as well, and she knew how long you were supposed to hold it before throwing a certain distance to make it explode when desired. But it still made her very, very nervous to have that on her back. She'd watched a single stick tear a training dummy to pieces, and there was nothing honorable about an accidental death brought by your own weapons.

And goblin weapons were _very_ prone to accidents.

These thoughts of honorable death made her suddenly see herself, skulking through the woods like a ferret while her brothers fought and died ahead. The shame didn't overwhelm her caution, but she _did_ pick up her pace.

Her father had warned her what this campaign would be like, but even so she was angry and frustrated by the action so far. Ducking and hiding while a troll took the kill she couldn't easily have managed? Running alone through dense undergrowth searching for enemies and allies both? Render hadn't even left its place on her back, yet, and it hungered to tasted the blood of these night elf cowards hiding in their trees.

She'd missed the campaign in Northrend. Not for lack of skill but because her father had insisted she was too young, too green, and would've been a hindrance to Dek'Terror. Instead she'd sat uselessly at a border post praying for action that never came. All the action had been in the north. In her frustration she threw her head back and bellowed a warcry as she loped along, almost daring some elf to try for her.

Deneth's cry was answered up ahead by her brothers, and she made her way forward to join the battle, hoping it would be some real action.

She'd gone more than a hundred yards without seeing anyone when without warning an arrow grazed past her bare elbow, slicing through the skin with an exhilarating burst of pain and sending blood trickling down her arm along her heavy bracer.

Deneth hadn't even seen it coming.

These sentinels could have another arrow in the air in seconds, but the fact that she was still alive bought her enough time to scan the trees overhead, searching for her enemy. Just before she decided she'd waited too long and it was time to find cover her eyes snagged on a slight motion in a tree twenty yards ahead and thirty up.

Deneth growled a curse and dove to the side, hearing the deep _twang_ of the bowstring. She'd dodged in time, but even so the arrow hissed by within half an inch of her helmet's cheekguard. The sentinel had adjusted her aim to try to catch Deneth in motion, and had nearly succeeded.

Damn, this archer was good.

She hit the ground and rolled behind the tree, immediately scrabbling to her feet to press herself against it, not even daring to look around the trunk for her enemy just yet.

The armor she wore was good, finely crafted and well fitted, and as heavy as orcs made it. A full open-faced helmet with a neckguard of overlapping plates, breastplate and backplate with thick shoulderguards, spikes protruding from them off to either side so if she rushed her enemy she could skewer them with a shoulder check. Bracers and gauntlets that left only a small area around her elbows bare. Below the waist a short chainmail skirt covered legplates, and greaves extended up over her knees to protect that vulnerable joint. Finally all the weight of her in her armor was supported by sturdy leather steel-toed boots, heavy enough to kick down a door with.

She trusted her armor. It had saved her life dozens of times. It made her a god when battling lesser armored or unarmored foes. But night elf arrows were made to punch through even the heaviest armor.

Deneth had little use for those sorts of ranged weapons herself. Bows, crossbows, darts, guns. All had only limited ammunition, and once they were out they were mostly useless in hand to hand combat. Sure, you could club someone over the head with a bow or a gun, but it would probably break it and not do nearly as much damage as a real weapon.

Now throwing axes were a different story. Throwing axes were _great_ in hand to hand combat, and they made for a devastating first volley as you and your fellow warriors were charging at your enemy. You could break their line's cohesion right in time to get there and start hacking. There was nothing like splitting someone's skull with one at fifty yards, their final expression one of stunned surprise. Most enemies didn't consider hammers or axes a weapon to be thrown, and they rarely saw the danger until one was heading their way.

Deneth conveniently kept a brace of them on her belt.

Fortunately her enemy was _much_ closer than fifty yards. Thirty-five at the most, and most of that vertical height. Deneth didn't have much practice with throwing upwards, so she wouldn't have wanted to try her marksmanship at any long range.

Of course, there was the inconvenient fact that she was pinned behind this tree, and the archer probably had an arrow nocked and bowstring drawn waiting for her to poke her head out so she could feather it. Even if the fool sentinel had been so unobservant that Deneth had gotten within spitting range of her before earning an arrow, that closeness didn't help her much now.

"Lok'tar ogar!"

Deneth whipped her head around to see a female orc warrior crashing through the underbrush in her direction, dual wielding maces with wicked spiked heads. "Look out, idiot!" she shouted, yanking her axes free.

The warrior ignored her, charging right past. Growling in annoyance Deneth rolled out from behind the tree on the opposite side, cocking her arm to throw. Her darting eyes quickly found the archer where she'd spotted movement before taking cover, standing on a branch and drawing the fletchings of an arrow to the base of her long, pointed ear. Deneth was impressed by how calmly the night elf stood, in spite of the fact that the slightest imbalance could send her toppling to the ground below.

Then again, elves didn't normally fall out of trees.

As she'd assumed the sentinel was already drawing a bead on the haphazardly dashing warrior. Deneth hurled her axe and charged forward, hoping to get to her companion before the arrow did.

The archer loosed at about the same time Deneth threw. But with her attention on her target the sentinel didn't see the axe flipping through the air towards her. It hit her low in the torso with a fleshy _thud_ Deneth could hear even over the shouts of the other orc. The hit folded the night elf over, toppling her out of the tree. For an eternal instant she fell, then she hit the ground with an even louder and much more final _thud_. The axe hadn't killed her, but that fall probably did the job.

Deneth slowed to look around quickly and make sure there weren't any more arrows coming her way. Well, it looked like there was at least _one_ elf that fell out of trees.

A low moan tore her eyes from the fallen elf, and Deneth turned to see her companion folded over on the ground with her maces cast aside, blood spurting out around an arrow jutting from just below her neck. Night elves used large arrows for their sentinel bows, and sticking out of the orc like that it looked as big as a harpoon.

She moved forward slowly, grimly certain of the truth of the matter. "A glorious charge, sister," she murmured, dropping to her knees beside the stricken warrior. The female orc was a few years older than her, but the pain and fear on her face made her look younger. "Don't move, it'll hurt worse."

"Healer," the warrior gasped.

Deneth shook her head grimly. "Not this time, sister. You join our ancestors."

Blood bubbled from the injured female's mouth as she tried to answer, blood sprayed from around the arrow, a weaker spray than with her previous heartbeat. Then the spray fell away to a gurgle as the heart shuddered to a halt.

Deneth growled a low chant over her fallen companion, rolling her onto her back with her limbs neatly arranged. She pulled the arrow free with a wrench and closed the dead orc's hands around the shaft, holding the weapon that slew her, and crossed the twin maces over her chest.

Then she left the body. Goblin looters would come through here once the battle had moved on, taking their share of the spoils and returning the rest to the Warchief's coffers to fund the war effort. She didn't like them being rewarded for such work, even if it was necessary and so unsightly no orc would happily stoop to it. Good weapons and armor couldn't go to waste these days. But sad that it had to be some sneaking goblin as the one to despoil this brave warrior.

The night elf sprawled where she'd fallen, still in death. Deneth's throwing axe had been thrown loose by the fall and lay a few feet away, slick with the sentinel's blood. She licked the edge of the axe, tasting of her enemy's strength, and wiped the rest off on the sentinel's skimpy clothes.

A worthy enemy's blood she might have smeared on her skin to frighten other enemies and warn them away. "But you weren't worthy, were you?" she whispered. Hidden in a tree in a perfect ambush spot, and she'd only killed one foe. How much age did those flawless elven features hide, how much battle experience, to have only killed one foe on the ground where she couldn't have even been a threat?

Deneth loped forward, following the sounds of battle. Through a thicket of dense undergrowth that she sometimes had to hack through with her throwing axes.

On the other side she discovered that she should probably have smeared that blood after all. Two orc warriors and a troll spear thrower sprawled in the clearing there, dead from arrows that had been fired from above, behind where Deneth now stood.

Perhaps that wasn't a surprise after all. Deneth had wondered how she was able to get so close before the sentinel's first arrow came for her. Not a lack of vigilance on the night elf's part after all.

The sounds of battle drew her, and Deneth left the three bodies of her companions as they lay when she loped past. She hadn't witnessed them die, so there was no obligation to attend to them. Not when she'd already avenged their deaths and the battle raged thick in the distance.

.

Drazgh rode a frostwolf howler into battle.

A fine bitch, from the Warchief's own stables, with snowy white fur that went to gray at the tips. She was armored around the torso and haunches, and had steel plates positioned over her eyes and cheeks to protect from enemy weapons as she ripped out their throats. Drazgh had owned her since halfway through his campaign in Northrend.

It was an honor to be given a mount. Unlike the human horses that only rarely joined the battle with flashing hooves and snapping teeth, worgs were nearly as dangerous as the orcs who rode them. And by the same token incredibly difficult to train and control. But when they were trained well they were cunning and vicious, and could be trusted to do as much damage as you did in a charge through the enemy's ranks. And if you were forced to dismount you still had a companion to fight beside you and guard your flank.

Perhaps best of all, they were so fearsome that their scent drove horses and other lesser mounts into a frenzy of fear, and few creatures dared to stand and face their charge.

It was a shame they so rarely got used to full effect. Aside from an elite force of champions who rode them into battle as Hellscream's personal fist in combat, most worgs were given to leaders as a sign of rank. And since only fools joined the fighting alongside the orcs they led and put their forces in danger of being leaderless, that meant the fierce wolves rarely got to taste blood.

As rarely as their masters.

At one time Drazgh would've been foolish enough to fight at the front lines with his warriors. Thankfully he hadn't distinguished himself for command until he'd gained some wisdom, wisdom to know that a leader's place was in the back, commanding, while a warrior's place was in the front, obeying commands.

Even humans understood that fact. The most common fighting leaders saw was in honorable duels and challenges, sometimes with the enemy and sometimes with your own upstart followers.

His mount suddenly snarled and glanced to the right, nose twitching at the scent of blood. Drazgh let her have her head, following her nose as she prowled through the undergrowth.

As he'd anticipated there had only been a thin ring of sentinels posted to watch the lumber camp. Beyond that the forest was mostly clear, since elves would have no reason to be here unless they had some other purpose.

Contrary to what some of his warriors believed, Ashenvale didn't have sentinels lurking in the branches of every tree, waiting to shoot down an unwary orc. Now that they were beyond the perimeter they would probably be able to drive all the way to the eastern fork of the Felfarran River and to Silverwing Hold on its opposite banks. Unless they met a night elf sortie sent to delay or intercept them.

If they moved quickly that wouldn't happen.

His worg led him to a clearing littered with bodies, scene of a more major skirmish. Half a dozen sentinels and seven of his raiders scattered around. His raiders had been positioned honorably in death, indicating survivors of the conflict on his side.

And sure enough Ursug and Korgeth were there, the latter licking blood off his greatsword.

His blood guard saluted as he approached. "The night elves are fleeing, General. I've seen a few of the cowards slipping among the upper branches heading south and west, towards the river. More than I expected to see, but they're not stupid enough to stay in place and engage when our raiding party is large enough to surround and overwhelm their isolated positions."

Drazgh nodded grimly. "Still, we can expect them to harry us once the momentum of our first charge has run out. We could be facing arrows all the way to Silverwing Hold."

His officer bared tusks fiercely. "Then let's not let the momentum of our charge run out. I've fought in these woods, against these elves, more than you, General. The hold is only a few hours away at a run, we can keep our lads to a good pace with the right whipping. The night elves might find time to drop an arrow among us here and there, but it takes longer to pick your way along thin branches than it does on solid ground, and they'll know that any we surround are dead."

Drazgh hesitated, then nodded. A sound plan. "Gather the raiders up in formation for travel through hostile territory. As quickly as you can. Get the officers in back goading our warriors on." He leaned down to pat the neck of his mount. "Let everyone know my girl here will nip the heels of any stragglers."

His warriors saluted and moved off, bellowing to rein in the enthusiasm of the warriors who'd broken through the night elf perimeter. Many were probably even now running off in random directions searching for enemies they wouldn't find.

War would teach them discipline. Or they'd die before learning it. Either way the problem would solve itself.

Drazgh reined his frostwolf around and set her to a swift gallop to the northwest, away from where his warriors were supposed to be going. With his mobility he was ideally suited to wrangling the stragglers and putting them back in line.

On his back Terror hung heavy, unused. He'd have plenty of chances to let it taste enemy blood before this war was over, but even age and experience couldn't completely temper the boiling in his blood, the desire to point his mount directly for the Felfarran River and rip out the throats of any enemy he encountered along the way.

A skilled commander counted his contribution in the battle's bloodletting in gallons, not pints. But little among those gallons was personally drawn.

.

A snarling to her right was all the warning she had to spin and whip Render out in guard position in front of her.

The nightsaber's jaws, aimed for her throat, locked around the haft of her axe instead as it pounced. The sheer weight of the creature and its sentinel rider bore her to the ground, her armor creaking as its weight settled on top of her.

Or maybe that was her ribs creaking . . .she felt like a kodo had fallen on her.

Deneth stared at those wicked fangs less than a foot from her face in shock, wondering how such a massive creature had managed to sneak up on her. Around the snarling jaws she caught sight of the cat's rider, more heavily armored than her archer sisters, tossing a triple-pointed glaive in a spinning arc. She couldn't see where it hit but she heard a snarl of pain and anger from one of the warriors she'd been running beside.

Then the sentinel called out a command in her elvish language and the snarling cat dropped low on top of Deneth, muscles coiling to spring away in another pounce.

_Oh no you don't_.

On instinct Deneth let go of her axe and wrapped her arms around the nightsaber's neck, locking gauntleted fingers together just as the creature pushed off. The weight of its jump sent a burning pain shooting up her body from her lower chest, but she didn't have time to worry about cracked ribs.

With a surprised yowl the cat twisted in midair, neck still held fast by Deneth's arms. The strength of its jump pulled her three feet along the ground as it tumbled and rolled on top of its rider, who screamed in surprise and pain.

Deneth released the cat before it could bring those massive jaws to bear on her face, only inches from wicked teeth. Panting in near exhaustion, from hours of nonstop running and then from this frantic few moments of struggle, she rolled onto her hands and knees. Her desperately searching fingers found Render's hilt, and hefting dragging it up behind her she threw herself at the enemy.

The cat struggled to stand, its efforts hampered by the weight of the sentinel beneath it and the saddle straps fouling its movements. Deneth slammed Render down on its snarling head, just below the great cat's left eye, and she felt its cheekbone break beneath the weight of the blow.

The nightsaber's predatory sounds became an agonized caterwaul and it convulsed. She heard a snapping of leather as the saddle ties came free, and then the cat was streaking off into the forest, trailing blood behind it and leaving its rider to the mercies of her enemies.

Before Deneth could recover to go after the sentinel one of her fellow warriors darted in and slammed a star-headed mace down at the night elf's head. The sentinel managed to block the blow with a leather-bracered arm, crying out in pain as her forearm snapped under the weight of the blow. But the orc simply drew back and hit again, and again, until her feeble defenses were stripped away and she was a bloody mess sprawled beneath her saddle.

She'd never had a chance to pull herself free and show her prowess with her glaive.

Deneth snarled at the orc who'd stolen her kill, then lifted Render to her mouth and licked some of the nightsaber's blood off it, tasting the creature's strength. The remaining blood on the axe she smeared across the front of her breastplate, showing the world her victory over her foe. If the cat decided to come back it would smell its own blood on her and think twice. As would any night elf riders.

This brief skirmish had put her behind the rest of the raiding party. Only a few dozen yards behind she could hear the snarling of her father's wolf, nipping at the heels of stragglers. Deneth had never come close to feeling that hot breath at her own back, but she'd heard that one orc had been left behind for the healers, cleanly hamstrung and silent in humiliation.

Two more nightsabers sprawled not far away, one dead from three arrows in its throat and the other yowling in agony as two orcs rained heavy blows down on it with their battleaxes. In another few moments it was dead as well. Their two riders sprawled not far away, killed before their mounts, and one had been decapitated. Deneth paused a moment to catch her breath and admire the skill of the strike before wearily lifting Render onto one shoulder and staggering on.

"Run, dogs!" she heard Ursug bellow from somewhere ahead. "Do you not see your enemy all around you? We've raced them to the river and won! It lies but minutes ahead. Show your speed now and stain its waters red with night elf blood!"

The words brought new strength to Deneth's limbs, and she bellowed and dashed forward, tripping on undergrowth and stumbling into trees in her haste. That one strike against the nightsaber was the only blood Render had tasted all day. The sun was hours past noon, nearly to midafternoon, and this was her first chance to go after her enemy with the knowledge they'd be where she could reach them.

Forget weariness. It was an old friend on the battle, one that let her know she was alive as she defeated it and her enemy both.

She found her fellow warriors fighting on the banks of the eastern fork of the Felfarran River, on the bank opposite Silverwing Hold. The night elf structure rose in the distance, partially obscured by a dense stand of trees. The river was too wide for branches to stretch across, which had forced the night elves to come to ground to reach their hold in time to defend it from attack.

There were more elves than she'd expected, even after the exhausting hours of crashing through the forest with enemies sometimes attacking them from above. Half a hundred at least, and some had remained in the trees on this side of the river to loose arrows to aid of their sisters' crossing, while others were already across and clambering nimbly up the trees nearest the water, bows slung across their backs as they swung upwards from branch to branch, leaping, swinging, and clambering their way up high enough to be hidden and protect the other sentinels on the east side of the river.

Her fellow raiders stood in that river, blood swirling around some of them and weapons dripping with gore, to meet the elves fighting to cross. Axes and hammers against longbows and glaives.

The fighting was brutal.

Less than ten feet ahead of Deneth a lithe figure dropped from a low-hanging branch and dashed towards an opening in the river where no orcs waited to cut her down. She didn't seem to have noticed Deneth, though her longbow was held white-knuckled in one hand. By her less than graceful steps Deneth judged the night elf must be nearly as weary as she was.

Deneth closed the distance in a charge. The sentinel's ears quivered and she whirled, bow coming up with shocking speed and an arrow appearing nocked on the string as if by magic. She was halfway to drawing as Deneth leapt the last few feet and swung, roaring a battle cry. The sentinel had no time to finish drawing and loose her arrow, no time to dodge, so the night elf did the only thing she could and blocked with her longbow. It was strong, made to shoot heavy arrows and constructed from the wood of ancient blessed trees, but no twig could hold back the weight of Render. Her axe shattered the bow and tossed the sentinel hard to the ground.

The lithe night elf managed to tuck into a roll, putting some distance between them, but by the time she found her feet and started to rise Deneth had closed once more. The female elf had less than an instant to stare, wide-eyed, as Render slammed down into her lifting face in a downwards diagonal chop.

The blow shuddered up Deneth's arms and the night elf went down again, this time for the last time. Deneth stepped over the corpse and brought Render to her lips, tasting her enemy's blood.

The night elves were strong and skilled. It was foolish to underestimate them. But at one time Grom Hellscream had called them the greatest warriors the orcs had ever fought. Warriors that might've proven too much for the orcs in the end if the Burning Legion's arrival hadn't turned them into allies against a mutual enemy.

The elves had lost their precious tree in that battle, and since then weren't the same. At least according to her father; Deneth's experience fighting the night elves had only come after the end of the Third War, and they seemed plenty fierce enough. If they'd been more in their first encounters with the orcs she was sorry she'd missed the chance to cross blades with them.

By her father's words they were more lethargic, slower, less strong than before. And that had been decades ago, with her father himself growing weaker with age. So they must've fallen far.

Perhaps it was like the bleakness that had taken the orcs in the internment camps. Deneth only distantly remembered living there as a child, with all the others stumbling aimlessly around, or more commonly just sitting and staring at nothing. The Blood Pact had loosed its hold on them during that time, that glorious addictive power and ferocity fading. It had left behind a people broken far more by its loss than by losing to the humans and being taken prisoner.

Maybe the night elves had lost something equally deep with their tree. Deneth's people had regained all their strength and ferocity and more after being freed from the Blood Oath, so perhaps the night elves would also one day return to the strength they had shown in years long past.

Best beat them now, then.

Her eager eyes searched the area for more enemies, but the night elves seemed to have learned their lesson about meeting the bigger, more savage orcs head on. The few still on this side had withdrawn back into the trees, leaping from branch to branch upriver or down to find a place to cross not guarded by orcs. The sentinels who'd made it across were loosing arrows at the raiders holding the river, prompting them to finish their own crossing to attack their enemies in the trees.

The only remaining night elf on the ground this side of the river was not far away, but already being swarmed by orcs. The Warchief's Northrend veterans, this group, not Dek'Terror. The sentinel was skilled, managing to open the throat of an attacker with one of the long knives she wielded, but there were too many foes to face.

Deneth watched the futile fight's end as one of the grunts bore the female night elf to the muddy riverbank and tossed her weapon away. But rather than landing the killing blow with his heavy, wickedly hooked sword the orc tossed his own weapon away and began tearing away the female's armor and clothes. Deneth watched the display in disbelief.

Like the other night elf females Deneth had fought today, this sentinel's armor was light and only covered her most sensitive areas, for ease of mobility. It was also skintight so it wouldn't rustle and make noise or snag on twigs and branches. The result of that was that undressing her shouldn't have taken long if the female wasn't struggling so hard to prevent it.

The sight bothered Deneth, although it wasn't particularly unusual among her people. She'd seen plenty of orc females born down and mated with. She'd even been in that position herself, although she'd always easily fought off the males trying to dominate her. Pathetically easily in most cases, enough that her own desires had sometimes tempted her to let a lesser male take her.

But where was the honor in that?

For that matter where was the honor in this? Sure, in many ways the female night elves resembled female orcs, at least more so than other races. Taller, yes, and the purple skin and odd hair colors were unusual, the long ears off-putting. But those limbs were thickly muscled, as muscled as Deneth's own, although longer and so looking more slender and sleek.

But while the sentinel's fighting seemed convincing enough, her screams of terror and pain were nothing like the playful grunts and growls an orc female would make as she was overpowered and taken.

Deneth had watched this sentinel face death without the slightest trace of fear. But now her terror suggested that she was about to face a fate worse than death. So for that night elf this wasn't mating and it wasn't a game, it was torture.

Even worse, the other grunts in the platoon weren't continuing on across the river after more targets. They were circling around, not just to watch the show as sometimes happened, but by their posture and expression waiting to take their own turns. On a female who'd already been claimed and overpowered.

Where was the honor in that? For them to all mate with that female would have been the blackest dishonor for everyone involved if done to Deneth herself, but they were willing to inflict such devastating humiliation on a night elf? As if because it wasn't an orc they were doing it to they saw no dishonor for themselves or for her?

The exact opposite should be true. Why else would Warchief Thrall have strictly forbidden mating with females of other races?

And worst of all was the way Deneth found herself responding to it. The sentinel's grunts and the way her muscles bulged as she struggled while her breastplate and shift were torn away, revealing soft flesh beneath. The frenzied grunts and panting of the male, the way his muscles bulged as he fought to restrain her. His breeches bulged too, and Deneth could tell that even for an orc he was well endowed.

Deneth longed to take that sentinel's place. To finally be overpowered by a worthy male and feel the pleasure she'd been coveting ever since she'd become an adult.

The male finally tore away the sentinel's leather armor and flimsy undergarments, revealing a crotch far more sparsely covered in silky green hair than Deneth's own. The female's screams became frantic as he began groping her with thick fingers.

That was what finally woke Deneth from her bloodlust and sexual frenzy, for she'd never heard such a broken sound during mating.

The next thing she knew she was leaping forward, vaulting thick roots and low bushes. The orcs hooting and coaxing their friend on silenced as she approached, looking confused. The grunt himself didn't notice, too intent on his victim. Yes, not a mate but a victim, how was that not obvious to the others? How was their dishonoring of her and of themselves not so shameful that they put a stop to it? The sentinel was feebly clawing at the bulging muscles of her attacker's arms and back, still trying to free herself.

Deneth closed the last distance between them and kicked the orc square in the face with her heavy boot, sending him sprawling up and backwards. She could feel his nose shattering with the blow.

Looking down the female, even though only slightly shorter than Deneth herself, looked small and frightened on the ground. Her torn clothes lay scattered about her, and her smooth purple flesh was bruised and scraped.

The night elf at her feet said a few words in her own tongue, dragging herself away from the surrounding orcs, and made to push to her knees. Deneth immediately kicked her back to the ground and, to keep her still, pressed a heavy boot down on her slender throat. The elf stopped moving, mostly because she was now struggling to breathe.

Deneth wasn't about to let an enemy move around freely right next to her. For all she knew the night elf could be hiding a small weapon somewhere, ready to stab her the moment her attention was diverted.

And she needed to give these orcs her full attention.

"What are you doing?" the grunt snarled, leaping to his feet with blood streaming down his face.

Deneth faced him down angrily. "The Warchief's command is clear. No mating with females of other races. If you could even call this mating, dog. This is torture . . . she's not even orc!"

"So?" The orc spat blood aside. "Garrosh promised us spoils from this conquest. A new Warchief, a new war!"

She gave him a look of contempt, which she shared with the other orcs. "And your friends too, sharing an unresisting female?" A few had the grace to look away in shame, but it disturbed her how few.

The orc had drawn himself up to his full impressive height. His member still bulged in his breeches. "Are you claiming my female? Are you so honorless you'd sex for pleasure rather than offspring? And with your own gender?"

Deneth saw blood for a moment. She barely controlled herself, spitting at his feet. "You expect offspring from a different race, dog? You accuse me of your own dishonor?"

The male's face had darkened dangerously. "Maybe you'd like to take her place?" he growled. "You'd put up a better fight."

Deneth slung Render back over her shoulder, letting her muscles show. "Try it if you're orc enough."

She'd expected that to make him back down. Her reputation was solid, and she looked every bit as intimidating as that reputation. But to her dismay another orc came forward to join the first. Was it possible they'd subdue her together? Had they no honor at all? And how would she be dishonored to be shared around the group like a broken half-draenei slave?

Before they could decide to such an atrocity she hastily drew her belt knife and fell into a crouch, slitting the night elf's throat.

The first orc snarled and surged forward, kicking her sprawling. Deneth came up in a crouch to see him standing over the sentinel, fists bunched helplessly. "What are you doing?" he shouted at her.

She calmly stood. "What you should've done, dog. Followed the Warchief's command and given a worthy opponent an honorable death."

"You would intervene in a mating as if the female couldn't judge strength for herself, freak?"

"She's not orc!" Deneth screamed back. "Her honor is different from ours, and your actions dishonored her in her own eyes! Better to have killed a child!"

"She was struggling like she wanted it," the male growled. "She did want it. And what do I care about a non-orc's honor? The Warchief promised us."

Deneth trembled with rage and a surprising amount of fear. Not for this male she could easily overpower, but for something she couldn't quite describe. She'd called him dog and he hadn't cared. She'd all but questioned his honor and he'd shrugged it away. How much more blatant could she be?"

Time to find out. She casually raised her arms in challenge. "You. Have. No. Honor."

The orc stared at her for a moment, eyes narrowed murderously. Then he laughed and turned away. "You're probably right, Limbrender. A female night elf wouldn't be a worthy conquest anyway. And I don't think I _could_ take you."

With that he stooped to taste the night elf's blood. He _had_ defeated the sentinel, after all. His companions were already making their way across the river, holding packs and weapons over their heads, and he moved to join them.

Deneth turned, feeling relief, and with a start saw her father sitting his wolf not twenty feet away where the treeline ended.

Had she delayed so long that the rear of the raiding party had passed her? Even the healers would be arriving, soon, and all the glory was being earned across the river. The only honor she'd earned here was a single enemy caught by surprise and slitting the throat of an already defeated enemy.

How would her father judge her who was to be his axe, winning their family honor while he must stay back and command? "Father, they were going to-"

"I saw," Drazgh the Terror cut in sharply. The frostwolf he rode seemed to sense his mood, for she snarled and snapped at nothing.

Deneth left the body of the sentinel and moved over to stand close to her father. But not too close; even trained worgs deserved cautious respect, and they were famously protective of their riders. Even though Deneth had known this bitch for years she still gave it proper wariness. "I didn't think the Warchief's command was really necessary," she said. "Why would orcs be interested in mating with other, weaker races? Don't they enjoy the challenge of overpowering the strongest female they can find?"

Her father glanced at the naked corpse, eyes tightening. Was he remembering something that drew such a dark expression down on his features? "Violence and mating are sisters of the beast within. When one is roused, the other is often awakened as well. Perhaps you've felt it yourself?"

That answer was so obvious it was almost insulting. "Of course, Father. Everyone knows some of the best mating comes before, during, or after a battle."

Drazgh nodded. "Orcs take what they are strong enough to take, and some desire mating enough to seek it from any source, even an unworthy one. In the heat of battle lust, for blood and for anything else, becomes harder to control. Under its sway honor is sometimes forgotten. This is why discipline is necessary. Not just to keep warriors in line fighting effectively, but also so that they fight honorably. For all his weakness, Thrall's command against mating with the females of other races is one of the few actions I agree with. And the fact that Hellscream enforced that command even when he abandoned so many other edicts of the former Warchief should help you see its importance."

Her father's expression had grown far away, haunted. The same way he looked when waking from his nightmares in the night. Were they related, then? Did he have personal reason, in his past, to understand and support Thrall's command in this matter?

Deneth still wasn't sure she understood why females of other races were so frightened and horrified by mating. It seemed reasonable that a female would only want to mate with a male strong enough to overpower her, and that she would fight with every ounce of her strength to be sure she'd found such a worthy sire for her offspring. But for females of other races it almost seemed like they _didn't_ want to be overpowered, that in fact overpowering them was a horrible insult.

"What will you do about those orcs?" she asked, remembering the way two had stood against her as if to visit the night elf's dishonor upon her as well.

Drazgh's eyes narrowed to slits as he pulled himself away from unpleasant memories. "They will understand the need for orders, and learn to appreciate the dishonor they visit upon others by suffering their own. I'll send them to the farms Hellscream's call to arms has left abandoned, with an overseer to beat them and keep them in line like the lowly peons they are."

She shook her head. "A shame, to put warriors to peon's work. They'll be needed for this war."

Her father casually leaned out of his saddle to cuff her, although she hadn't meant her words as criticism of his order. "A warrior without honor is a rabid wolf, as likely to rip out your own throat as that of the enemy. Safer to muzzle them, for the sake of their enemy's honor as well as the honor of the Horde. At least at the farms they can serve the war by producing food we'll need to fight. They can preserve some honor in such a worthy task."

Deneth opened her mouth to give her opinion of such an "honor", but her father continued before she could. "You did well to uphold the Warchief's command, daughter, and showed your strength by not backing down from such a large group. I see the potential for leadership in you, if you can gain wisdom to match your boldness."

Her face flushed with pleasure at the unexpected compliment, and she solemnly drew herself up and saluted.

Drazgh dismounted and guided the wolf toward the river. "Come. The last of the defenders on the far bank will have fled to safety by now, opening the way for us. With the discipline Hellscream keeps his Northrend veterans at I would almost expect the idiots to have begun assaulting Silverwing Hold."

Deneth was surprised. "Shouldn't we be attacking the hold?"

Her father shook his head, leading his mount into the bloody waters. Behind them the healers were coming forward, wounded from the engagement converging on them. Deneth moved to ford the river at her father's side, keeping him between her and the worg.

"The elves are dug into their fastness by now. Defending a position takes far less energy than assaulting it, and both sides are equally weary from this chase. Let the warriors have an hour to rest, to eat and drink and unwind from the tensions of battle. Give me and the officers time to plan and order our forces as well, and our assault will be all the fiercer and more effective when it comes."

Deneth nodded, joining her father in rounding up the Dek'Terror and calling the warriors back. A leader's work, not just the work of a mere messenger sent to relay orders.

Her father thought her worthy of it.

.

An hour later the assault began.

With a dozen blasts of warhorns from the trees Horde raiders broke from cover and swarmed around Silverwing Hold, glad to finally have a target on the ground where they could get at it. Like all night elf outposts this looked more like a nobleman's manor, with railed open-air terraces in front and back stretching the entire length of the building. Most of the back's interior was one large room, with tiny rooms arranged in the front as sleeping quarters for guests and sentinels between patrols. Those rooms also served as an obstacle for anyone assaulting the numerous entrances at the front of the hold.

On the surface it didn't look particularly daunting as fortified outposts went, but its three levels were full of hidden nooks where sentinels could perch and loose arrows, then fade away to take another spot while their enemy's attention was on the one they'd just vacated. These nooks were all different levels, not just the three heights that marked where the outpost's floors ran, so defenders could be at floor level, on the roof, or anywhere in between.

Drazgh even saw an arrow loosed from a crack just above the ground, a basement nook. It hit one of his Dek'Terror in the shoulder and the warrior fell bellowing in outrage and pain. He continued yelling insults and challenges at the hidden defender as two of his fellow warriors dragged him away to where the healers waited.

More arrows flew, frightfully accurate, but the swarming raiders barely seemed to notice them as they hacked at any entrance. A few doors and windows had already been broken into and there the fighting was furious, night elves struggling to repel the stronger and fiercer orcs, tauren, and trolls who battled to get inside.

Looking at the battle at a glance it looked as if the Horde warriors were completely uncontrolled, running wild with no leader competent enough to keep them on task. And for some of the Northrend veterans and troll hunters that may have been true.

But the actions of Drazgh's Dek'Terror only seemed chaotic. In truth his veterans were moving in highly disciplined ways meant to throw off and confuse the enemy as they worked towards a purpose. Drazgh called it "Turok duk-worg" after the way the fierce large wolves of Draenor ran down a herd of elekk or other prey, snapping at their heels from all angles and herding them to an advantageous position, or simply to run the large creatures down until they collapsed in exhaustion, ready for a quick dart in to tear out a throat.

During the hunt the worgs appeared disorganized, each attacking on their own, but in truth their actions were highly coordinated on an almost instinctual level. So it was with his warriors.

At the moment the Dek'Terror swarmed the front while the other raiders were responsible with occupying the elves along the other sides of the hold. Their method was to dart in from the trees and attack a certain entry point with hammers and axes, weakening it, and as soon as defenders began turning arrows their way retreat with the wounded to the nearest cover. Unlike the other raiders they merely broke down the doors and through the windows before withdrawing, opening the way in without trying to actually enter.

Thus far his Dek'Terror's patterns had remained unguessable to the enemy, and few of his warriors had taken wounds as they kept moving, keeping the elves constantly switching from perch to perch trying to find an advantageous spot to shoot down at their frustrating attackers.

Drazgh nodded to Deneth at his side. Alone of the Dek'Terror she wasn't attacking the front. Instead at his signal she moved towards the rear left side of the outpost, lugging her heavy pack. Drazgh had ordered several of his warriors to attack with their packs on, as if they didn't consider the hold challenge enough to cast them aside. To the night elf sentinels his daughter would appear to be just another attacker.

As Deneth trotted into position and joined the attackers back there Drazgh moved around to the front. His warriors continued their attack without giving any hint that their plans had changed, waiting for the signal to begin.

It would be hard to miss.

Drazgh joined one of the attacks on a window that had stubbornly remained closed to the efforts of his warriors, a table wedged across it with solid wood that resisted the hammers and axes of the attackers. Drazgh gave it a few solid swings form Terror, bellowing with every blow, then ducked back and to the side in case any archers had drawn a bead on him. One of his men immediately moved in for a few swings before ducking away in a different direction.

They were almost ready to dark back to cover when an explosion rocked the ground beneath him, the explosion his daughter had set in the back going off. At that signal Drazgh roared and motioned his warriors around the sides of the hold with Terror, as if making for the breach.

As soon as they were out of sight of the front he and his orcs flattened against the hold. The other raiders _were_ attacking through that breach, but in spite of the danger it offered it was only a diversion.

After giving it half a minute or so to let the night elf defenders abandon their posts and investigate the explosion Drazgh whistled. His warriors sprang from the trees along the front of the hold, and he and his men swooped in from the sides to dart into every entrance they'd hacked open.

The window Drazgh hauled himself through was completely unguarded, as he'd hoped. In the chaos of battle, fighting apparently undisciplined troops, and with the front never seriously threatened like the sides and back had been, the explosion in back had bought him some time.

Not much time. Disciplined and skilled soldiers like these sentinels were hard to fool. They'd realize their mistake soon enough, when one of their commanders saw defenders leaving their posts to be where they weren't needed. But the diversion would give them half a minute, perhaps.

It was all he needed.

Korgeth hauled himself through the window behind Drazgh, and he heard soft thumps and creaks as his other men made their entry into other rooms along the front. Unlike the raiders howling their way to the breach, and those still yelling as they attacked the sides of the structure, his men moved as silently as possible.

Drazgh darted to the doorway and through it, into a hallway that ended in a wall not far to his left and stretched the length of the hold to his right. A sentinel coming down that hallway from deeper within the hold gave him a shocked look, but before she could open her mouth to cry a warning, or even attempt to dodge or reach for her own weapons, he leapt forward and slammed Terror down on her face. She crumpled to the ground with a sickening _crunch_.

More of his warriors streamed out of nearby rooms, and he heard a swiftly cut off shriek from one near the other end of the hallway as a sentinel was silenced.

Drazgh made for one of the large doorways on the far side of the hallway from the row of doors leading into the front rooms. It would lead to the big room in back, if his memory of night elf architecture was correct.

Just before he and his Dek'Terror reached the doorway half a dozen sentinels darted through it, led by an antlered night elf male. The elves stared in shock at the sight of Horde warriors approaching down the hallway from either side and from the rooms opposite. Probably unable to believe that the apparently undisciplined orcs had breached the front in the less than thirty seconds they'd left it undefended. And in complete silence.

"Althei de nesuna!" the antlered elf screamed back over his shoulder, even as he began to warp and shift, his limbs and torso growing thicker and his head becoming larger, nose elongating into a snout. In less than a second a great purple-black bear filled the entryway, rising up on two legs to completely block the space and letting loose a fearsome roar. From around the bear's bulk arrows sped. One struck Korgeth in the leg and he went down cursing.

Drazgh roared and lunged forward, swinging Terror in a downward diagonal blow towards the bear's hip. With surprising speed the shifted druid batted aside his hammer, and with the backswing struck Drazgh in the chest and sent him flying backwards into another of his Dek'Terror.

Snarling in pain, Drazgh rolled onto his arms and hauled himself to his knees, cursing his age. Three of his warriors had swarmed the bear before it could regain its balance from knocking him aside, and even as those heavy paws sent one flying backwards it took a deep cut in the side from an orc dual-wielding axes. That warrior darted back from the answering blow, and on the other side Cranok got in a solid strike with his hammer, fending the bear's counterswing with his heavy tower shield. To his credit the burly orc only went down to one knee at the force of the blow, rather than being knocked away.

The bear gave a plaintive roar at these hits, stepping back to give itself more space than the cramped doorway afforded. As it backed away another flight of arrows screamed past it around every gap, and the warrior with the axes went down with one in the belly, showing admirable strength in keeping silent in spite of the pain.

"Get him out," Drazgh snapped to Korgeth. Down the hallway he could see his warriors streaming into the big room through another entrance, and for a moment he debated letting this bear have his glorious stand here while the bulk of his warriors came through that way and hacked the thing to pieces from behind.

One of the warriors at the other entrance falling back with an arrow in her throat decided him. Bear or no bear, they needed both these entrances if they were going to effectively take the rest of Silverwing Hold.

"Back!" he snapped at the warrior who'd come in to stand beside Cranok. The warrior backed away and Drazgh surged forward. "Cranok, with me."

The veteran immediately rushed forward beside Drazgh, lifting his shield to bash at the dark-furred bear. The bear roared and swung backhand at Terror, lifted over Drazgh's head, even as it put its other shoulder into Cranok's shield and shoved backwards.

Drazgh had been waiting for the shifted druid to go for his hammer. He let it go, letting the bear's paw swing past harmlessly, and before the beast could swing backhand at him he leapt up and wrapped his arms around the heavy limb, doing his best to get his legs around the bear's torso.

The bear was strong, he'd give it that. The kind of strength no lone orc could easily stand toe to toe with, especially in an enclosed space. But even the strongest bear would have trouble dealing with 350 pounds of armored orc pinning one arm.

And Drazgh wasn't alone. "Dek'Terror, KAZ!" he bellowed.

Behind him his warriors closed in, all in a rush. The bear roared and slammed Drazgh into a wall, opening itself to two more orcs with nearly eight hundred pounds combined weight between them crashing into its chest simultaneously at a full charge.

Drazgh managed to hold on as he was crushed against unyielding wood, teeth snapping together and tusks scraping painfully. But his weight and the weight of his warriors shoved the bear back out of the doorway. Cranok had managed to follow Drazgh's example and pin one of the bear's legs, and as it stumbled he tripped it, sending it toppling backwards.

Arrows sang over Drazgh's head as he fell, and he released the arm he held and drew his wicked belt knife, lunging for the nearest sentinel as soon as his feet touched the ground. Behind him half a dozen warriors piled on top of the bear, smashing heavy weapons into it from all sides as it roared in desperate anger and fear.

The sentinel's eyes widened as he closed with her, and she whipped her bow up horizontal in a guard position and spun, dropping one of its ends and thrusting it at his throat. Drazgh slapped the skillfully aimed blow aside with one hand and closed the remainder of the distance, tackling her to the ground even as she tried to duck to the side.

They crashed down together, and somehow she managed to draw a double-pointed knife from her belt by the time they landed. Drazgh threw his shoulder into the blow she aimed for his neck, dropping on top of her. In his armor he more than doubled her weight, and the single slender arm she held up trying to fend him off buckled even as she stabbed with her other hand. He collapsed on top of her, shoving aside her arm holding the knife.

Drazgh had had plenty of experience wrestling in his life, and against opponents far more fierce and powerful than this sentinel. Point of fact this sort of wrestling was kind of like mating, and Drazgh had plenty of practice with that too. It didn't take long for him to shove her weak arms away and position himself to where he could get his knife at her slender throat and begin hacking. In seconds she was gurgling beneath him, hot blood spurting to spray into his face. He tasted her strength, honoring the fight she'd put up for one caught by surprise, then shoved to his feet and trotted back to the doorway to retrieve Terror.

One quick glance around the area as he ran showed him nearly every entrance held by his raiders, more streaming in to take part in the final assault. Dozens of night elves already lay dead, while within the walls only a handful of his own forces had fallen. That could be deceptive, since most of their casualties would've come outside, but it was still a heartening sight.

His Dek'Terror led the charge up a spiraling ramp up to the higher levels, although the one at the front buckled sideways from an arrow hitting him in his left side, shot from one of the walls: the nooks the night elves had used to shoot out at them also gave them a vantage to the hold's interior, it seemed.

But the majority of the night elves were clustered at one end of the large room, and it looked as if they were fighting to keep his raiders at bay while they hacked their way free to where they could flee into the woods that were nearly as much their home as this building. Up on the wall on that side several nooks were crowded by sentinels shooting arrows out at those raiders that still remained outside on that side.

"Hunters!" he roared, pointing with Terror. "The nooks!"

Half a dozen trolls glanced upward, then aimed throwing spears, javelins, and bows up at the night elves in their nooks. A dozen orcs joined light hammers and throwing axes to the volley, including a pair thrown by her daughter. Those were thrown in quick succession and hit a night elf, occupied with an outside target, in the back and back of the head respectively. She tumbled backwards out of the nook, over the railing, and fell to the floor. Convenient to where Deneth stood, and his daughter ran over to retrieve her throwing weapons.

The battle cries and war chants of his raiders were growing louder, more triumphant. They could see victory within their grasp and closed on the bunched up night elves, struggling to drive them right back against the wall and butcher them there. Drazgh hoped that his raiders still outside were doing an effective job of keeping the enemy bottled in.

That hope proved futile. Even as he rushed across the room to join the fray he saw the night elves trickling through the few openings they defended, like sand pouring out through the bottom of a funnel. Two druids in the shape of owlbeasts formed the rearguard, wielding nature magic in tandem to bring the wood beneath the feet of his raiders to life, tripping them and writhing up their legs to trap them.

"Through the breach!" Drazgh yelled, pointing at the hole in the wall at the corner on the side the night elves were escaping from. Intent on the kill most of his warriors were clustered around uselessly, trying to follow the night elves out through their protected exits. Deneth saw his intent and slapped at a few nearby Dek'Terror with Render, goading them to the breach and out to take up the chase. Drazgh changed directions to follow.

Near their exits the two owlbeasts, the last elves in the room, shifted into birds and flapped away, leaving a dozen raiders pinned to the floor with wood wrapped around their legs and up their torsos. Now that nature magic no longer animated the wood it had stiffened to its usual hardness, and the efforts of the warriors to free themselves was showing success. One had a loop of wood wrapped around her neck, and her face was swiftly turning purple from lack of blood.

With a snarl of annoyance Drazgh stalked over and picked up the female's discarded hand axe, using it to carefully hack at the wood. Useless to cut her free if he cut her neck at the same time.

By the time he got all the orcs free of their wood bindings and led them outside the night elves were long gone. Only a few orcs remained, picking over the few night elves who'd been caught outside the hold to make sure they were dead.

"A glorious victory, Elder," a warrior shouted from across the clearing, shaking his axe. "The survivors flee into the forest!"

Although Drazgh wasn't best pleased at any enemy escaping he smiled, revealing the full length of his cracked tusk to the cooling air of evening. Ten years that injury had been with him, the pain telling him he was alive with every breath he took. The victory could've been more complete, but it had still been decisive. Dozens of the enemy dead and less than ten of his own in serious condition, although five times that many bore wounds serious enough to take them out of the battle for a few days, even with healers.

"The glory's nice," he agreed. "But the spoils are more useful." He swept his arm towards Silverwing Hold, where the sounds of fighting from the upper levels were finally dying down. He raised his voice to a roar to draw the attention of the scattered raiders. "Into the hold, lads! Let's take what's worth taking, split out our share, and send the rest to Hellscream for the war!"

His words were met with a cheer as the orcs rushed forward to join the looting. Warriors usually got to take part in the spoils, but when they weren't conquering there weren't usually many spoils to take part in. Border skirmishes were a pretty useless way to make a living as a soldier.

But the spoils would flow like water, now. Garrosh's war machine had lurched to a start with this first skirmish, and before long it would grind into full swing. They'd sack many a town and return home rich with loot, ready to spend it on whatever they desired.

Many a town. More than they'd need to, from what he'd heard from the Warchief. Taking spoils they didn't need and killing people that didn't need to be killed.

Part of honoring a worthy enemy was backing away when the battle was done and leaving them to lick their wounds. You saved them for the next fight, keeping yourself strong, because if you killed all your enemies then who would you fight?

Drazgh knew the answer to that better than anyone alive. Yourselves, that's who you fought. You turned on your own with blood and frenzy and tore something big and grand into pieces. Just like the Old Horde had when the draenei were defeated and thought exterminated. The Old Horde had ripped itself back into clans before Ner'zhul found a new world for them to invade. The death toll from the infighting had nearly matched what they'd suffered in their entire campaign against the offworlders.

Drazgh returned to the hold to oversee the looting and keep his warriors honest. The Dek'Terror he had little worries about, but whether the Northrend veterans would try to sneak a greater share was anyone's guess.

Once they were finished here it would be onward to Felfarran River and Splintertree Post. They would regroup at that small outpost, double its garrison and dump their spoils and the bulk of their supplies there.

Then they'd push onward to Raynewood Retreat with its dryad, druid, and keeper of the grove guardians. It would be another rich target, filled with enchanted artifacts and fonts of power that Horde druids and shamans seemed to covet, as well as the wealth of the land's bounty that wielders of nature magics there had drawn forth.


	4. Insult

Chapter Three

Insult

A dozen night elf bodies littered the clearing up ahead, along with four orcs and a tauren. Drazgh would have thought it odd that these purpleskins would make a last stand here when they could've easily gotten clear if he didn't know night elves.

The grove was filled with flimsy trees, narrow trunks and branches drooping over streams he could easily step across. Walkways of carefully arranged stone meandered in every direction, and everywhere else unfamiliar flowers carpeted the ground. Along with the slaughter ahead, his raiders pushing through this area had shot down a dozen large, silver-feathered owls roosting in these trees, fearing night elf spies. One still remained up above, hooting plaintively.

"The night elves call this area Silverwing Grove," Ursug growled, coming up beside him. "What pathetic drooping trees and useless flowers. Did these fools simply wish to die in a pretty place?"

Drazgh turned away from his inspection of the clearing. "Whatever their reasons for fighting here, the night elves put up a pathetic struggle. Their hearts are not in this war, as the hearts of the Alliance are always soft and weak when it comes time to do what must be done."

Ursug nodded, growling low in his throat. "There is little honor in killing those who refuse to fight back. Shall I set the men to desecrating the battle standards we looted from the hold?"

"Yes, for a start." Drazgh frowned down at the bodies filling the clearing. A dozen night elves, free of the hold and with nothing stopping them from fleeing the massacre. Yet they had chosen to stand and fight here, out in the open where his raiders held the advantage. "The night elves do not revere the standards of their people as they should. They view them merely as locations to rally to. Desecrating them may anger the night elves, for they'll surely see the insult, but it won't be enough to enrage them, to draw them fully into this war."

"Then what do they revere?" Ursug demanded. "Nothing we've done yet has drawn them into fighting. Always they cower behind their olive branch, claiming to work towards the good of Azeroth by submitting."

Drazgh glanced around at the weak trees, the useless flowers. "That wasn't always so. When the Warsong Clan first encountered the night elves they angered them so greatly that one of their very gods stepped in to stop us."

Ursug followed his gaze to the clearing, then spat. "You mean the lumbering? Faugh, why would they care about these trees? They'd produce poor lumber, and none of these plants are good for eating."

Drazgh glanced again at the fallen defenders. He liked what he saw, there. He didn't want his enemy hiding in the trees, killing his orcs from their unassailable branches. He wanted them insulted and enraged, coming forth to meet him on unfavorable ground. As they had here.

"Night elves worship nature. They seek beauty in it. Silverwing Grove is worth more to them than a thousand battle standards."

Dropping the flower in his hand, Drazgh crushed it underfoot as he turned away. "Instruct the goblin looters to burn it to the ground, then salt the earth. We make for Splintertree."

.

The council at Starsend Refuge, in southern Darkshore, was unprecedented in Azeroth's history.

Yes, Alliance and Horde had worked together before for the good of Azeroth. Beginning with the Third War and their battle against the Burning Legion at the very feet of Hyjal, but not ending there. Other dangers had risen to threaten this world he now called home, and each time with agonizing, infuriating effort he had managed to make both sides see the need to put aside old hatreds and fight together.

Aided by Malfurion Stormrage, Jaina Proudmoore, Cairne Bloodhoof, Vol'jin of the Darkspears, and cool heads on both sides of the dividing line.

It was a truce of sorts that had lasted since the end of the Third War, with only scattered incidents to threaten the peace. And Thrall, son of Durotan of the Frostwolves, had worked. Ancestors knew, he'd worked! Every day since settling his people in Durotar and founding Orgrimmar he had struggled to make all the races of Azeroth see the need to put aside their hatreds and build a lasting peace.

It had seemed hopeless at times. Men like Daelin Proudmoore, unable to forget the near genocide of their race when orcs had come screaming through the Dark Portal, unable to see that Thrall's people had cast aside the chains of demonic influence and returned to their peaceful, shamanistic roots. Hotheads among his own people, bitter at their imprisonment in the Lordamere Internment Camps and thirsting for the glory and bloodshed of the Old Horde. Orcs who resembled the reckless bloodlust of his old friend, Grom Hellscream, before Thrall had shown him a better way.

But now a path was open to finally bring both sides together, united in purpose. The war against the Lich King had been a start, and one that would possibly have achieved all of his goals were it not for the machinations of Grand Apothecary Putress and his master, the dreadlord Varimathras. And the bullheadedness of Garrosh had been an even greater threat to the peace, one that may have ended in disaster were it not for Deathwing's emergence.

In a way Thrall blessed the Cataclysm, for it had turned the Horde away from war with the Alliance and once again set everyone against a greater threat. And where he had failed in his efforts to secure a lasting peace before, he had every confidence that he would finally succeed.

It would begin here, in this very room.

All the races of Azeroth were represented in the room, but primarily orcs, tauren, trolls, night elves, blood elves, draenei, and dwarves. The dwarves were unfamiliar to Thrall, wearing riding leathers with faces painted or tattooed with woad.

The factions stood at either end of an oval table easily fifty feet at its longest and twenty at its widest, in a room cavernous enough to make it seem small with a high domed roof and sloping walls. The only entrances to this hall at the peak of Starsend Refuge were the ramps that led to the flat roof directly above and down deeper into the dwelling, both currently closed off by heavy double doors.

Between the Horde and Alliance representatives at the table, delegates and authorities from neutral factions served as a buffer of sorts, a mix of races from Horde and Alliance both mingling in fellowship.

The map spread across the huge oval table showed all the continents of Azeroth, and it was marked in black where the Cataclysm had caused devastation and purple where the Black Dragonflight or the Twilight's Hammer cult presented a threat.

There was a lot of purple and black on that map. Too much.

Thrall looked around the room, judging. The necessary pleasantries had been met, although they were strained, and the representatives weren't mingling as he'd hoped they would. Nothing prevented him from beginning, in the hope that a shared purpose would accomplish what a half hour of chitchat hadn't.

"Good friends and allies from all the races of Azeroth," he started in a loud voice. "Would that this were simply a chance to mingle and build ties of friendship between the various races and factions represented here. Unfortunately the threat is dire, and our need for haste paramount. With Shando Stormrage's permission I would like to begin."

Across the table the tall, powerful night elf with his stag's horns nodded solemnly. Thrall inclined his head to his peer and leaned over the map, using a long pointer to indicate areas of interest. "The Cataclysm rocked Azeroth to its bones. In many areas people are still trying to rebuild or survive the elements gone wild. But even so our attention must be directed to three critical points of danger."

Malfurion nodded, leaning over the map to brush the spots with his own pointer, delicately held with long, elegant fingers. "Hyjal, the Maelstrom and its connection to the Plane of Earth, and the Highlands of Khaz Modan, of late often called the Twilight Highlands. Of these the Maelstrom is most critical, for the World Pillar has fragmented and threatens to collapse. Such a collapse would drop Azeroth into the Plane of Earth, certainly destroying it."

Thrall nodded grimly. "Shamans are best equipped to deal with the elemental planes. The Earthen Ring has already moved to secure the Maelstrom and prepares to enter Deepholm to retrieve the fragments of the World Pillar and repair it from that end. After this meeting I go to join my efforts to theirs."

The night elf inclined his head to a group of draenei. "The Earthen Ring's neutrality opens it to all who wish to join, but at present its representation is chiefly Horde affiliated races. The draenei and Broken shamans wish to even the scales and offer their aid. Depending on how the rest of our efforts go, shamans of the Wildhammer dwarves would also represent their people in the Earthen Ring."

Thrall inclined his head to the assembled draenei and dwarves. "Then we move to Hyjal."

Malfurion leaned far to rest a protective hand over the spot indicated on the map. It was an ugly stain of purple and black. "As the Earthen Ring steps up to shoulder the burden of the Maelstrom, so the druids of the Cenarion Circle claim responsibility to lead our efforts in Hyjal. We will be led by Ysera the Dreamer herself, now that she has awakened. After this meeting I go there with the bulk of my Cenarion Circle agents to answer the call to arms. The Twilight's Hammer have begun a strong push in the area, and far more dire a rift into the Plane of Fire recently opened. Whether it was opened by the Cataclysm's wrack or by Deathwing at a later time is uncertain, but we have disturbing reports that Ragnaros is attempting to use it to once again manifest on Azeroth."

"A renewed league between the Black Dragonflight and the Lord of Fire is perhaps as dire as the fracture of the World Pillar itself," Thrall said gravely. "I will seek out champions of the Horde to aid in the conflict there. Surely Garrosh must see that hostilities should be set aside to answer this need."

Malfurion nodded, but his expression was doubtful. "The Alliance, too, answers this call to arms. But their forces are stretched thin recovering from the atrocities of the Forsaken spreading out of Lordaeron, and setting themselves against the increasingly aggressive posture of the Horde forces in Kalimdor. You must convince your Warchief to cease this aggression, and compel the Banshee Queen to withdraw as well. Alliance forces must be free to be sent where they are gravely needed."

Thrall clenched a fist on the table. "I will see it done."

There was a disbelieving snort from one of the night elves, and the draenei's expressions had become forbidding. "However it must be done, Thrall," Malfurion said quietly. "King Varian and the representative Alliance races are willing to shoulder the brunt of this assault and sacrifice their own lives to counter this threat to Azeroth. They only ask that the orcs step back and let them save us all. Step back, that is all. Surely not such a difficult thing?"

Thrall felt his face flushing. "You have asked that it be done, my friend. It will be done. Give me the trust I give you."

After a long, troubled pause the night elf nodded. "If anyone can make Garrosh see reason it is you." He turned back to the map. "The Maelstrom and Hyjal are fires threatening to rage out of control, but the last area is the one from which the other threats stem, and given time it may become a threat to dwarf the others. The Black Dragonflight has settled their new hatcheries at the old dwarven fortress of Grim Batol, and the Twilight cult stages its operations from there."

A quiet voice spoke up from the side. A female with the appearance of an elf, but with red-gold skin and burning eyes. A red dragon in elven form. "The Black Dragonflight has shown that nothing is beneath it. It has stolen eggs from the other dragonflights to experiment on and kidnapped females for forced mating. In ages past this was Deathwing's effort to replenish his own decimated brood, but now he turns it to more sinister purposes. His dream of creating a chromatic dragonflight subservient to him, a group of dragons bred with the blood, and power, of all the five dragonflights, was realized once before in Blackrock Spire by his offspring Nefarian. By great fortune heroes of the Alliance and Horde both took part to destroy the fortress before Nefarian's fledgling chromatic brood could grow to adulthood and become a true terror."

The female looked around gravely. "Now, we fear, he may have succeeded in just this attempt. And there are hints that his experiments on dragonkind have produced even more vile abominations. If this is true then from Grim Batol will emerge a force that will sweep over Azeroth unchecked. The World Pillar's collapse or Ragnaros burning the world in fire will seem mercifully quick deaths in comparison."

The room fell into troubled silence at these tidings. Thrall cleared his throat. "Remnants of the Dragonmaw Clan went to ground in the Twilight Highlands. We have not had contact with them in a long time, but perhaps it is time to bring them back into the Horde. They will provide an ideal staging area for any pushes into the Twilight Highlands."

One of the Wildhammer dwarves cleared his throat. "Ye don't fight alone, laddie. Me'n me kin already set hammer to the damn cultists, and we been the line ta hold them back fer over a year now. But their numbers've grown too great and they're burning me kin's homesteads, one after another. If ye hurry ye might make it in time to find allies to yer fight. Otherwise the Wildhammer Clan'll be driven right from t' Highlands and back to our last redoubts in the Hinterlands. And we won't emerge from there fer anything, victory or defeat." The Wildhammer included everyone in his look. "That goes fer Alliance too."

Malfurion nodded grimly. "King Varian sends what aid he can spare, but much of the Alliance's strength has been diverted aiding our new allies in Gilneas from a Forsaken invasion, as well as aiding the Argent Crusade in their efforts to reclaim the Plaguelands." The night elf frowned and glanced at Thrall. "Sad that it always comes back to you, my friend, but Lord Fordring sends a request that you personally speak to the Banshee Queen concerning Forsaken activities in the Plaguelands. The Argent Crusade wishes to hold to neutrality in this, and recognizes the Forsaken are different from the mindless peril that was the Scourge. But if Lady Sylvanas does not control her undead the Crusade will have no choice but to forswear neutrality and set itself against the Forsaken, and by extension the entire Horde. They may even take it a step further and formally swear their services to the Alliance."

Thrall closed his eyes slowly. Aggra had been right to suggest he give up the mantle of Warchief to gain deeper understanding of the elements. Had he not taken that action he wouldn't now have the bond with the elements he required to do what was needed at the Maelstrom. But he hadn't anticipated how so many fires he'd kept tamped into dormancy while Warchief would suddenly spring into full blazes the moment he stepped down. "The Wildhammer clan will have its aid in the Twilight Highlands. The Forsaken will withdraw and leave the Alliance free to be where they are needed. But you set many burdens on my shoulders, my friend. And just when I need to set my whole mind to the Plane of Earth."

Malfurion gave him an odd look. "Burdens you forsook, to the sorrow of those who depended on you."

Thrall nodded grimly. Yes, the fate of his people always fell back on his shoulders. The weight of saving them from themselves as much as from the world.

Why could Garrosh not have risen to this challenge, as Thrall had hoped? Could he not wish to have at least one orc who shared his vision, who he could trust to keep the Horde on its path while the world needed him?

No, best not to let his mind wander down that path. Garrosh was new to the mantle of Warchief, yet. The opportunity still remained for him to grow into it as Thrall knew he could. As his father had. He changed the subject. "What of the Kirin Tor? Jaina has made no contact with me of late. What role will they play?"

Malfurion looked at him with narrowed eyes for a bit longer, then looked away, back to the black and purple map. "The mages continue putting down arcane hotspots all over Azeroth. The Cataclysm played havoc with the ley lines, unleashing magical disturbances at many of the major loci. They'll be busy for the foreseeable future, but they've promised to do what they can. Their portals and teleport services are at the disposal of Cenarion Circle, Earthen Ring, and any troops of the Horde or Alliance sent to aid in putting the world to rights. The Horde can contact them through the Sunreavers still stationed-"

A commotion outside the chamber drew all eyes to the doors leading up to the roof, in time to see them thrown open by a gale of wind. A monstrous black and purple bird, a storm crow, fluttered into the chamber, nature energy swirling about it as it stretched and shifted itself back into a female night elf clad in a short leather skirt, hunched forward with her arms drawn up at her sides and standing on the tips of her toes.

She tottered for a moment, then straightened and hurried over to Malfurion, whispering furiously in one long ear as he leaned down to listen. More sentinels rushed into the room, hurrying to whisper urgently to other dignitaries.

Only the Alliance ones.

Malfurion cursed, eyes suddenly glowing wild with green energy. Many among the Alliance representatives, and even the neutral representatives of Alliance races, whirled to give the orcs and tauren dark looks, hands falling on their weapons. They looked an instant from exploding into violence.

"We leave!" Malfurion snapped, voice echoing with pent up power. "Put away your weapons. The parlay remains in force and they're needed elsewhere."

Immediately the Alliance representatives began streaming from the room. Even the majority of neutral faction members of the Alliance races fled with the others, leaving Horde the dominant representatives still standing motionless, looking to Thrall in helpless confusion. In her corner the female dragon watched it all with golden, glowing eyes, her opinions on this sudden chaos given no hint on her impassive features.

The sentinels actually provided a rearguard for the retreating representatives, as if anticipating attack.

Thrall stepped forward to grab Malfurion's arm, confused and alarmed by the sudden change in the normally calm druid and the faction representatives. "What is going on?" he demanded. "We still haven't discussed the deployment of our forces in Hyjal and-"

"We won't be going to Hyjal," Malfurion snarled, eyes dangerous as they met his.

Thrall stepped back, shocked. "But the threat there-"

"-is on your head!" the night elf roared. "The World Tree burning, the world itself burning, are on _your_ head! Leave with your people while we still let you go, Thrall, and be glad I have more honor than you."

Without a backwards glance the Archdruid whirled and ran for the door.

.

Silverwing Grove.

Malfurion could recall hundreds of visits to that hallowed place in his more than ten thousand years of life. It was not the first place nor the first time he'd made love to Tyrande, and yet by her profession it was the time when the Moon Goddess had formally blessed their union.

Beyond that it was a place of exquisite beauty and peace. Even the most bloodthirsty demons had given it a wide berth on their march to Hyjal, unnerved by the feeling of calm and power that permeated it. The spirits of ancient trees and beasts roamed in animal and elvish form, young elves were brought there to grow up and meditate in the serenity of that sacred place, bathing in holy waters and sleeping under warm stars and the light of the moon. And at one time Cenarius himself had called it home, and his daughters the dryads had been its stewards.

And now its willows and flowering bushes were burned to the ground, the silver owls which called it home murdered on the wing. The stones uprooted and together with the piles of ash and charred logs shoveled into the ponds and streams to choke the sacred waters.

By the Goddess, had the savages no morals whatsoever? There were few places holier to his people. Particularly the Sentinels who loved it well.

Garrosh Hellscream. By the messenger's account the force that had defiled Silverwing Grove was small, less than five hundred. But it was only an advance party of raiders: owls scouting for his people had borne word of an army ten thousand strong mustering on the banks of the Southfury River, ready to tear their way into Ashenvale burning and pillaging all in their path. Not a large force compared to the armies the Alliance could bring to bear, but they were committed elsewhere. And with all his people's forces rushing to Hyjal the attack could not have come at a worse time.

Garrosh had to know it. As Thrall did, since Malfurion himself had told the young orc shaman.

A fool.

Malfurion's anger was towering, but it was directed as much at himself as at the orcs who pillaged his people's homeland. A fool he'd been, and a selfish, arrogant one.

His actions had been for the good of Azeroth. If their very world was to be saved he'd known he would have to put aside the insults offered by the enemy and extend the hand of fellowship, so they could together turn their strength against enemies which threatened them both.

It was only logical and necessary. If he let himself become embroiled in conflict the world would burn. Nature would burn. As archdruid it was his duty more than anyone's to protect the world.

But his mistake had been in assuming that the enemy could be expected to be reasonable and see the their own danger, their own need to cooperate or face annihilation. He'd ignored the plight of his people betting on that assumption, sacrificed them to the Horde to maintain neutrality so all of Azeroth could be saved. He'd never asked their permission to make such a sacrifice, and in his efforts they had lost so much:

Immortality, land they'd held for over ten thousand years, the murders of their demigods and allies of nature gone unavenged, and even their very lives. Representing them even though he had not asked their desires in the matter, Malfurion had forced the night elves to pay these prices to save Azeroth. As they had in the Third War, the steepest price of all those who'd fought in that battle.

And for it the orcs had thanked them by continuing to murder his people and rape nature. Even as Deathing and his nihilistic minions sought to destroy them all.

Elune's wrath upon them, the fools! Malfurion tightened his hands into fists on his staff, feeling his anger stirring the power within him. Power which nature had bestowed upon him to protect it from those who would do it harm. He'd thought that by ignoring the actions of the Horde for the sake of peace to save all of Azeroth he was protecting nature as it needed to be protected, but he'd only ignored a less immediate threat in favor of the urgent one.

Collapsing into the Plane of Earth, burned to ashes by Deathwing's fire, or razed to the ground by Twilight cultists. All threats to nature. But death by a thousand cuts as orcs uprooted everything to feed the fires of their war machine was just as certain a death to nature.

It was time for him to atone for his mistakes. To come to Tyrande on bended knee and beg her forgiveness for his misguided faith in Thrall's ability to hold the monsters under his command in check. Time to turn nature's wrath on every threat that confronted it.

It would surely mean death for all of them, destruction for Azeroth itself. But that was on the heads of the Horde races that gave them no other option. If orcs seemed determined to see the world burn to feed their bloodlust Malfurion would spend Azeroth's final days fighting beside his people, where he should have been from the start.

Velen seemed convinced that they needed the Horde to combat the Burning Legion when it returned. But what did Velen know of the future other than his nebulous dreams? The Light wasn't a reliable god, like the night elves' own deity Elune. It could be Velen's visions could only come to pass after the Alliance had crushed the Horde into the ground and supervised its rebuilding in a controlled manner.

Obviously the Horde races couldn't be trusted to control themselves. A fool he'd been to ever think they could be. And all his foolishness, all his broken faith, could be laid at the feet of one orc. An orc whose skill at making promises was exceeded only by his skill at breaking them.

_Him_.

Malfurion drew his power to himself, gripping his staff tighter as he strode into Starsend Refuge's entry hall. "Get out of my way, Thrall," he demanded of the orc that stood in the center of the room, blocking his path. Dozens of Alliance dignitaries and leaders circled around him, and not a Horde representative was in sight. Only their respect for this orc could explain why they hadn't already torn him to pieces to get outside and on their way to protecting their allies.

Is that why Thrall was really here? To delay their response and keep Alliance leadership pinned down in inactivity while his people looted and pillaged. As he'd done so many times in the past while claiming to be unaware of their actions, all the while demanding his people's victims pay heed to a greater threat?

But Thrall didn't move. "I must know what's happened, old friend. Why have you called off this vital planning and now regard me and my representatives with suspicion and hostility? If we're to have peace I must understand-"

"There will be no peace!" Malfurion snarled. Around the room others of his people raised their voices in agreement. Some, at least, were finally looking at him with the regard he'd once enjoyed, although others still glared at him as if this atrocity were as much his fault as Thrall's.

Then again, they were somewhat justified in that opinion. He would go to them, each of them, and beg their pardon.

After he'd begged Tyrande's.

Thrall still didn't move. "Please, old friend. Just explain, that's all I ask."

Malfurion took a deep, shaky breath. "Your Horde attacks into Ashenvale in force. They waited until Tyrande and Ysera pulled the bulk of my people's defenders to face the threat in Hyjal, then struck. A force of several hundred raiders has already razed all night elf outposts east of the Felfarran river, and they now push across it to continue their attacks. Our owl and storm crow scouts inform us that at the Southfury River a force ten thousand strong is gathering to press the invasion against my people. Garrosh is fully committed to destroying the night elves, it seems. Now get out of my way."

"It can't be more than a skirmish, while Garrosh's army prepares to face a true threat," Thrall protested. "Likely the Warchief isn't even aware of it. He swore to me that he would do nothing until I returned from this council."

Likely he wasn't even aware of it? Was Thrall honestly trying to continue with those feeble excuses that had worked so well in the past? "Silverwing Grove is ash!" Malfurion roared. "Sacred waters defiled, beloved spirits of nature sent fleeing! Your people may just as well have thrust a spear through my heart, and worse still your armies muster to attack in full force, and you try to claim this is a _misunderstanding_?"

Thrall looked shocked. "I swear to you, Shando Stormrage, I had no knowledge of this attack. You know I've been working with you to set up this summit and address the threats of the Cataclysm for weeks now."

Malfurion laughed in disbelief. "Do you really take me for a fool, Thrall? A full-scale assault isn't planned and carried out in secret. Unless you have no ear at all to the affairs of your people you had to have known it was coming, and if you didn't that's a bigger insult to your ability than any I could make."

The former Warchief bared his tusks in a way some who didn't know orcs might've assumed was threatening, not a sign of frustration. "I knew he was marshaling troops and had called all orcs to Orgrimmar for war. But I thought it was to address the threats of Deathwing and his minions, not to assault the night elves while their attention is turned to Hyjal."

"It doesn't matter. Either way _you're_ the one who appointed your successor, so his actions are on your head."

The orc's shoulders slumped, sagging as if he bore the weight of Azeroth upon them. But what would _he_ know of that weight. A scant couple of decades he'd been a player, working to protect Azeroth in the most selfish way possible to preserve his own people. Malfurion had struggled to preserve his beloved world for _millennia_.

Why had he ever thought Thrall a peer, an equal in their efforts? Those arresting blue eyes distracted from a tongue that oozed with snake oil. And here he was preparing to deliver more. "I understand your pain, friend. But please, don't let your emotions threaten what we've worked so hard to build here."

"Me, threaten?" Malfurion repeated incredulously. "Your Horde invaded night elf lands! After our last round of negotiations I thought this was settled, you _told_ us it was settled! But that butcher Garrosh seems intent on taking what he pleases over the corpses of the innocent." Thrall said nothing, so he continued, letting his anger loose. "I cannot ignore this! I will not!"

The young shaman weathered the tide of his rage like an old oak. When Malfurion finally fell silent he spoke quietly. "What will you do?"

He met the blue-eyed gaze steadily. "You know what I'll do. What I must do. I'll rouse the ancients to war. I'll wake the druids and gather the Sentinels, and lead at their head as I did in the Second Legion War. I'll drive the invaders from Ashenvale and to the gates of Orgrimmar itself." He let his voice drop, low and full of promise. "And then I'll seek reparations."

Around the room other dignitaries and representatives murmured their approval at this.

"What of Hyjal?" Thrall demanded.

"Hyjal will burn. The heart of my people will burn. But better that then keep our backs to the enemy, fighting for their sake while they butcher us." Alliance dignitaries and his own people raised their voices in approval again.

Thrall shook his head in sad disbelief. "Is this the time to be letting such conflict grow? Deathwing roams free, killing indiscriminately. The Twlight's Hammer sow their seeds of nihilism in every city and war camp. The World Pillar is shattered and Deepholme is but a sliver away from merging with the Prime Material Plane. Ragnaros stirs and Hyjal burns. We must work together or see all of Azeroth destroyed. As the head of the Cenarian Circle, your duty is greater than any consideration of race or faction. As the leaders of Earthen Ring and Cenarian Circle, we must make the first gesture in-"

"Make the first gesture?" Malfurion cut him off forcefully. "Are you mad, Thrall?"

Thrall's jaw tightened. "Do you think I like leaving the fate of my people to another while I concern myself with the worries of Azeroth itself?"

Malfurion laughed in the orc's face. "You dare talk of neutrality? You _dare_? Months ago when the Alliance captured you and took you in to stand lawful trial for the war crimes of the Horde, you slaughtered them all while _claiming neutrality_. Then you led the negotiations which inducted a criminal slaver and his cartel into your Horde to build you weapons of war. But now that my people are threatened, and by the figurehead _you_ set up to rule in your absence no less, you suddenly remember your high-minded ideals?"

Thrall opened his mouth, but Malfurion continued fiercely. "Ancient trees, Thrall! Trees with voices of their own and wisdom going back thousands, tens of thousands of years, burned down for no reason other than love of destruction! Innocent night elves butchered in an act of unlawful and unmitigated aggression. A civilization that has prospered in solitary peace for ten thousand years, now on the brink of extermination, and you ask me to ignore the actions of your people and watch my own race die for the sake of Azeroth?"

"If we do not face the threats that come against us now, the extinction of your race is certain. Peace can be brokered when Deathwing is defeated."

It shocked him, that in spite of his rage he could hear something outrageous enough to make him laugh not once, but once again. "You bloody-handed hypocrite. Prattling on about peace and the greater good while for years you willfully turn a blind eye to the atrocities committed by the people under your command. Always claiming ignorance, and yet somehow the people who commit those atrocities remain in power, unchecked. And now, the very moment when you set aside your mantle of Warchief, suddenly your people become the same brutal, bloodthirsty savages they were in the wars against the humans? Convenient, that you can cheer your people on while personally claiming to be above the conflict."

Thrall's jaw had clenched during Malfurion's tirade, yet somehow he kept his temper. "The World Pillar must be mended, and now. I cannot afford to tarry while it threatens to collapse and hurl us all into the Plane of Earth." He turned away. "I will send word to Garrosh, urge him to back away from this madness. But if you lead your armies against him now he will ignore me. So it is up to you, Shando Stormrage. If your conscience bids you so, go, lead your people in a fruitless war while Azeroth burns around you. Or remember your duty, to Hyjal no less, and set aside your differences until the crisis is past."

Shoulders straight, the young shaman took his first step towards the door.

On his second Malfurion unleashed his power, ordering the living wood of Starsend Refuge to sprout vines which curled up and around the orc's limbs, tearing the Doomhammer from its place on his back and pinning him in place. From the sides several dignitaries gasped in surprise. He must have caught the powerful shaman by surprise, too, because by the time Thrall thought to fight back it was too late.

Assuming Thrall even could have faced Malfurion in his wrath, with dozens of other enemies all around.

The orc struggled to turn his head, blue eyes wide in disbelief. "I came in peace, Shando Stormrage," he said in reproach. "And I leave in peace to protect us all. You would hold me?"

Malfurion's breath heaved in and out as he struggled to keep himself from ordering the vines to crush Thrall within them. "I warned you up in Stargleam Hall. I gave you a chance to flee and you refused to take it. If you're really interested in peace, in the fate of Azeroth, bid your compatriots among the Cenarion Circle and Earthen Ring to do their duty even in the face of your imprisonment. Send your missive to Garrosh Hellscream urging him to back away for all our sakes, and to Baine Bloodhoof, Lor'themar Theron, Vol'jin, and whoever leads the goblins with similar missives demanding peace."

Malfurion slowly lowered his staff, forcing the shaman to his knees. "But as for you, Thrall, you will remain our guest here. I no longer trust you to do as you say, and I can't risk letting you once again break neutrality to aid your people in this war. If you wish to regain my trust, the trust of all those who fight for Azeroth, you'll have to prove to us we weren't fools for giving it to you in the first place."

Malfurion moved around in front of Thrall and crouched, meeting those piercing blue eyes with grim command. "Find a way to stop your Horde."


	5. Dismissed

Vol'jin: So the Mag'har be tellin' Garrosh his daddy a monster who enslave da orcs, and den Garrosh be whinin' all da time by some pond. Den Thrall come by and he like "Nah man, Grom cool." So Garrosh be like "All right!" and he run off ta be just like daddy.

But den Thrall like "Whoa orc, Grom not _dat_ cool." and Garrosh like "Shut it bitch I kill you." Den they fight and Thrall run off to save da world, and Garrosh be like "FOR DA HORDE!" and start roid ragin' through Ashenvale while Thrall be trying ta make peace.

Den Thrall like /facepalm.

Chapter Four

Dismissed

The two huntresses rode in single file, feline and elven ears all cocked warily. Those massive nightsabers could manage shocking speeds carrying their lightly shod riders, but now they moved at a cautious pace, blending into the undergrowth so well it would take a vigilant enemy to see them.

This forest was their home, and the confidence with which they passed through it showed they were well aware. But in many conflicts with their orcish enemies they'd learned some respect, and their eyes darted everywhere, searching for enemies hidden on the ground.

Their mistake. They'd learned to respect the orcs, but they still hadn't learned to treat them like they would their own sisters in these woods. They ruled the treetops, agile enough to leap from branch to branch in a way brutish grunts or lumbering tauren, or even woodwise trolls, never could. They couldn't conceive of a threat coming from there.

Those wary eyes never looked upward to where Deneth crouched on a low branch above them, so when she leapt down at the front rider she caught the female by surprise.

The nightsaber snarled and twisted, head lifting to look at this new threat. And admirably the huntress immediately followed the gaze of her mount, in time for her eyes to widen as Deneth slammed into her with the weight of a strong female orc in full armor dropping nearly twelve feet.

They both tumbled out of the saddle, the nightsaber leaping sideways to dodge, and Deneth's weight drove the sentinel into the ground hard enough that she felt a strain in every joint in her legs. The huntress beneath her had taken the brunt of the collision, and her cry of pain was nearly enough to drown out the snapping of bones.

Behind them the second huntress had urged her mount forward, triple-pointed glaive poised to throw at Deneth in one hand while she raised her shield protectively across her flank. Ursug and Dorig both leapt out from where they'd lain perfectly still and hidden in the thick foliage, catching her from either side.

Deneth had only that split second to ensure that the second sentinel wasn't an immediate threat. The nightsaber leapt for her and she desperately rolled away from the injured huntress, cursing her inability to draw her belt knife quick enough to strike a killing blow. The enormous feline had to twist in midair to avoid landing on its hurt rider, giving Deneth time to shove to her feet, drawing Render from her back.

Across from Deneth's position Lan'zil popped into view, arm cocked back to throw, and whipped a spear at the nightsaber crouched protectively over its master. The cat batted the weapon aside with almost lightning fast reflexes, snarling low in its throat, and crouched to spring at Deneth. Admirably the female troll, reacting to her miss, drew two hatchets and darted forward to join the battle, rather than hanging back as other troll hunters tended to do.

Deneth was determined the female would have no chance to gain glory in this fight.

The nightsaber was fast, and its spring was powerful. But in midair it had no chance to dodge, its size making a convenient target as Deneth threw her weight behind Render in a brutal crosswise slash. The blow took the nightsaber in the left shoulder with such force that as it bowled into Deneth and knocked them both to the ground its left foreleg flew away in a spray of blood, keeping Render faithful to its name.

The cat convulsed with an animal noise of agony, jaws closing towards Deneth's face abruptly disappearing as it rolled aside, snapping at its injury in mindless bestial pain and fury. Deneth stepped forward, raising Render to take the nightsaber's head. Its pelt would make a fine trophy, and a soft addition to her bed.

A split second's warning was all she had to change the direction of her swing, blocking a glaive spinning towards her throat with the bracer on her right forearm. The heavy weapon glanced downward to hit her in the stomach, forceful enough that she felt it even through her armor. She leapt back away from the wounded nightsaber to see the injured huntress wavering on her feet, drawing a second glaive from her back. The arm she wasn't using for that hung useless at her side, a sharp white fragment of bone protruding near the elbow.

"El'thelune denil naturi," the female snarled, whipping the glaive from its ties and in a sidearm throw in Deneth's direction.

Deneth desperately brought Render's head up to shield her face and throat, staggering slightly when the wickedly sharp weapon chunked into its shaft. One of the spinning blades stopped a hairsbreadth from her left eye, and she felt a trickle of blood from her ear where it had sliced through cleanly.

She snapped Render aside to dislodge the weapon, in time to see the huntress limping towards her with a long knife held in her good hand. At her side the nightsaber crouched on three legs to spring, snarling. Deneth shook her axe again, but the glaive remained lodged stubbornly in its haft.

Just before the nightsaber sprang it staggered forward, head dropping to the ground with a meaty _thud_ as one of the troll's hatchets took it in the back of the neck. It twisted on the ground, rolling as if trying to dislodge the mortal wound, but in less than a second it went still, dead.

The huntress whirled to look at her mount, eyes wide in shock and grief, and Deneth took the opportunity and darted forward, slashing hard with Render. The night elf managed to get her long knife in front of the blow, but that only meant that instead of taking off her head Render merely took the arm just below the elbow then buried itself into the dusky steel armor protecting her chest.

As she fell back with a cry of anguish Deneth yanked her weapon free and swung again, burying the weapon in the huntress's belly. The night elf tried to twist away but the motion was feeble, mirroring her despair. She slammed into the ground with blood spraying from three wounds, clawed weakly with her stump to try to get back to her knees, then dropped down in defeat.

Deneth mercifully ended her suffering with the decapitation she'd intended to begin with.

Now that her own frantic part in the fight was done with Deneth had a chance to look around. The second huntress was down with several wounds, her nightsaber mount's skull a pulpy mess from Ursug's hammers. But even there the element of surprise hadn't given them the anticipated edge. Dorig was also down, once-strong hands desperately groping at a throat torn open by the large cat's wicked claws. Deneth needed only a glance to see that the Dek'Terror wouldn't live to see the end of this minute, let alone long enough for them to get him to a healer.

Ursug was already growling the death chant, drawing his belt knife to hack away the nightsaber's claws for Dorig to hold in death.

Deneth licked the mingled blood of night elf and nightsaber from Render, then wiped it clean on the sentinel's armor and looped it back over her shoulder. "You want the pelt?" she asked Lan'zil.

The troll glanced at the stump where its forelimb had been, grimacing. That wound marred the pelt, but it was still fine. "Hell yes," she said.

"Have at it, then." Deneth made her way over to Ursug to help him complete the death rites, absently rubbing her torn ear and feeling the blood between her fingers.

"They fight well," she growled. "Even caught by surprise they don't make it easy." The blood guard merely grunted in agreement, and Deneth arranged Dorig's sword and shield over his head. "Second group in as many hours," she continued. "These aren't random travelers or even scouts. It's a patrol."

Ursug spit off to the side. "Aye. There's a night elf army about. A real one."

"About damn time." Deneth glanced west, the direction they'd been pushing. Astranaar was only a day's march away, if her father's maps were correct. "Do we keep on going, find this army and determine its size and whether or not we can take it?"

The blood guard hesitated, glancing at the slice across his bicep. It was bleeding heavily, sending blood seeping down over his bracers to pool on the heads of his hammers and drip to the ground. Caught by surprise, attacked from several sides, and the night elf had killed one of the Dek'Terror and wounded a blood guard.

"No," Ursug finally said. "We've caught the night elves squatting to shit up til now. But by this time they should've noticed their patrols aren't returning, and this is their forest. We could too easily fall into an ambush." He turned, growling at the others in their party. "Let's report to the General and see how he looks at it."

Deneth nodded and returned to her kill, looting it and taking the huntress's long hair for a trophy. Lan'zil was already nearly finished with her skinning, blade moving in confident motions. She'd even retrieved the severed forelimb and skinned and declawed it, as if she planned to sew the pelt back together.

It made her slightly jealous to think of the necklace or ornamentation the troll could make with those claws and fangs. A thinking enemy was a worthier kill, but hair wasn't exactly stylish or useful. She'd spend the bounty and that would be it. "Ready to move out?"

"Soon, gurl, soon," the troll growled. "Ya be movin' out if ya need ta, I catch up easy."

Deneth exchanged glances with Ursug, who'd already finished looting his kill. The blood guard didn't seem interested in skinning his nightsaber or collecting trophies, and a shared glance between orc and troll was all that was needed to give permission for her to take it as well. "Let's go, Limbrender," he growled. "The purpleskins might be skinning us next."

With a sharp nod she fell in behind the veteran, and together they slipped into the undergrowth heading east.

.

"As far as I was able to see the force is several thousand strong, traveling fast from the north. I caught sight of them just as they crossed into Ashenvale from Felwood."

Drazgh nodded slowly, fighting the urge to curse. "Probably redirected from a march to Hyjal. Thousands of warriors called away from their dire need at the World Tree is too extreme a response to our raids, successful as they've been. Which must mean they've become aware of Hellscream's army invading behind our push."

The old tauren druid nodded soberly. Drazgh had been making use of him and others among the healers as scouts. Some would call that reckless, putting their healers in the path of danger, but Drazgh had learned through long years of battle that good scouting saved more lives than an army's own number in healers. In any case in these trees, against masters of subtlety and woodcraft, the only effective means of scouting was from above. The sky, or at least in the higher branches in cat form.

"Their current march takes them southeast," the druid said, "which means if we delay they'll soon cut us off from rejoining the main Horde army."

"Aye, and my returning scouts have reported killing groups that have to be their western patrols, which means we might be the target of a hunt before too much longer." Drazgh cursed and glanced around their small clearing. It had taken longer than he'd expected to draw a response from the night elves, which had led him to make a foolish, and arrogant, mistake.

They were too close to Astranaar, too deep into enemy territory. They'd been killing any night elves they came across, marking their position on the map in blood. All well and good for increasing their honor with a higher kill count, but these night elf troops they were about to encounter would be seasoned veterans, not the dregs left behind while their fellows went north to face the threat in Hyjal. They could expect arrows from every tree.

He cursed again. "We'll leave behind a few cairns to mark our position to the scouts that haven't returned yet." With that he stepped into the center of the makeshift camp and raised his voice to a bellow. "Gear up, lads! The elves to the northeast are wise to us, and they're pissed and outnumber us at least ten to one. We march due south at double pace until we either get ourselves some breathing room from the bastards or they overtake us and we're forced to fight."

His Dek'Terror immediately began preparing to move out, while some of the other raiders, mostly Northrend veterans, complained about running like dogs with their tails between their legs.

Fools.

The tauren glanced around, frowning. "There's still half a dozen of our parties out there, mostly to the west. I'll remain behind, hidden, just in case." The big bull abruptly glanced off to the side, eyes narrowing. "Well, at least there's one less to wait for."

Drazgh looked over to see Korgeth returning with a group. Later than expected. The first sergeant immediately hurried over to them, saluting. "General, we've gotten within spitting distance of Astranaar."

He narrowed his eyes. "I didn't order you out that far. You were to go out a few hours, then return."

"Aye, sir. But we found a convoy making its way towards the island city. Too numerous for us to tackle alone, and moving too quickly to come back and get more lads to go after them."

Drazgh sighed. He expected more from Dek'Terror than this. "Well?"

Korgeth licked at one tusk, still stained with blood. Bloodtusk, his orcs were calling him these days. The officer had adopted the primitive troll practice of drinking the blood of his enemies for strength, and he must've encountered at least one victim. Tasting an enemy's strength was one thing, but drinking deep was just . . . nauseating. Drazgh's own memories of such practices while under the influence of the Blood Oath were unsettling.

"Astranaar seems to have sucked up all the night elves we haven't been encountering in our push west. The walls are bristling with soldiers, the lake teems with nasty looking fish and water creatures, and we saw more than a few trees stomping around." Korgeth licked his tusk again. "Haven't encountered those night elf ancients for years, now. Treants sometimes, sure, but not those big old ones."

Drazgh shook his head. Wonderful, enemies to the west as well as the northeast. "Anything else?"

"Aye. We encountered a storm of birds over the island. Dozens and dozens of owls, hawks, eagles, falcons, crows, ravens, you name it. Some spotted us and followed us for nearly an hour before we lost them."

Drazgh cursed and glanced around quickly, one hand going to Terror. "To arms, lads!" he shouted, moving quickly towards the center of the camp. "We might have a real battle on our hands!"

Korgeth hurried after him. "I swear, General, we were careful. No one could've followed us these last few ho-"

"Fool, night fell almost an hour ago! The elves could've walked along right next to you and you'd never have seen them." Drazgh stooped to pick up his pack from where he'd set it along with a dozen others around the trunk of a thick old tree.

Korgeth opened his mouth to protest, but before he could an eerie, haunting noise echoed through the woods. It sounded almost like a horn, if the horn was carved entirely of wood and had long, indecipherable words among the whistling notes.

Drazgh had heard it only once before, and hearing it now didn't fill him with a warrior's excitement for the battle.

"What da hell was dat?" a troll hunter nearby demanded, looking around frantically. Before Drazgh could answer, or shout a warning, the tree he'd taken his pack from beneath abruptly dropped a thick, heavy lower branch and slammed it through the surprised troll.

Not into, _through_. Six inches or more of solid wood, swung with such speed and force that it cut the startled creature cleanly in half and sent his torso flipping away while his legs skidded along the ground. Even so the troll's amazing regenerative powers started to kick in, slowing the flow of the incredibly viscous red-black blood that oozed out from the fatal wound.

Drazgh leapt aside, whipping Terror from his back. Yes, the sound definitely didn't excite him. Slaying worthy enemies was one thing, but that call was a druid's message to awaken treants. There was no honor in hacking at wood like a lumberjack, and it was doubly unpleasant when that wood hacked you back.

"Explosives and lumbering gear, orcs!" he bellowed. "The trees awaken!"

As if answering his words the treant twisted, its impossibly fast limb whipping out towards him. Drazgh leapt straight up and propped Terror against his feet, just in case. A few inches of wood would be scant protection against that vicious blow, but it was more than nothing. Luckily the limb whizzed by beneath him, the speed of its passage making his hair whip back for a moment.

With a groan like weathered wood being bent to the breaking point the treant's trunk slowly split into several sections, each one leading down to a thick root. As the sections began lifting, freeing the ancient tree from its imprisonment in the ground, its roots began snapping as well, breaking off about a foot below the soil. As the limb whipped back around to tear through a cluster of scrambling Northrend veterans the treant took a long, oddly disjointed step that seemed to take hours and yet took it across the clearing in a moment.

Drazgh rushed the creature's "back", lifting Terror over his head, and before he'd gone five feet another of its lowest limbs came to life, whipping out at him. This time he dropped, again thanking his luck as it whooshed overhead. From the ground he looked up, up, into that canopy to see two knotholes near the top slowly spreading open, revealing dense globes of polished wood inside. Those ancient, alien eyes looked at him, and in them Drazh saw his death.

Damnit, trees were eerie enough when they were still. All twisted limbs and rustling whispers. Animated, making no noise but the groaning of bending wood and looking at you with eyes that shouldn't even function, they were downright terrifying.

Drazgh rolled aside as a third branch whipped down, snarling as it impacted the ground right beside him. As it rebounded it struck his leg, and even that diminished force was enough to send a sear of agony up to his hip, deep enough that he was certain the limb had been broken.

Then he heard a deep-throated chanting behind him, and as the branch whipped around at him again vines suddenly sprang up from the ground to snare it. Half a dozen of them immediately snapped, but the animate branch's momentum faltered just long enough for more vines to spring up and catch the branch firmly. Not content to simply hold the limb, the vines began tugging it towards the ground, creeping up its length towards the treant's trunk while continuing to pull in a way that slowly, inexorably, threatened to tip the entire thing over.

Drazgh looked over, panting, to see the tauren druid standing there. The bull hadn't the empathy with these trees to awaken a treant of his own, and vines were among the more simple of a druid's tricks. Still this one had to be powerful to call so many, so precisely.

Strange, he didn't even know the druid's name. A true leader should know of the orcs he commanded.

Gritting his teeth, Drazgh shoved up onto one foot and used Terror as a crutch to hobble towards the captured limb. That six inches of wood could cut orcs in half, but a hammer properly swung could shatter it, and Terror had always proven the greater of any challenge to its sturdiness.

The treant's full attention was on the druid, and its remaining two limbs whipped out to lash at the tauren. Both were snagged by more vines, some by the druid and some from a female tauren on the other side of the clearing. Drazgh reached the limb and balanced on one leg, breathing deeply, before bringing terror down in a crushing overhead blow.

The hammer glanced away with a sharp _crack_, doing less than he would've hoped. But the branch did have a deep fissure along it now. He glanced up to be sure there were no other more immediate dangers and saw his warriors scrambling for the trees, while two more treants lashed out at them from the other side of the clearing.

Smart, that. As long as the night elf druids couldn't awaken _all_ the trees they would serve to slow and obstruct the progress of the treants. But even as his orcs began disappearing into the undergrowth he heard the sharp _twang_ of bowstrings and saw a dozen arrows fly.

A real battle indeed. Fighting animate trees and elves up in the branches. Maybe even elves up in the branches of animate trees.

Snarling to himself Drazgh lifted Terror and swung again. Another crack formed and the limb began thrashing spastically against the vines that held it.

Before he could make another attempt a groan turned him towards the treant's trunk. It had dug its remaining roots into the ground to hold it in place, but the vines had crept halfway up its trunk by this point and were pulling hard. As he watched one root tore free, then another, and finally the thing came crashing down not ten feet from where Drazgh stood on one leg. The force of impact was so violent that the ground shuddered beneath him and he almost lost his balance.

Up near the top of the downed tree those wooden orbs still glared balefully, its attention fully on the druids that subdued it. Drazgh made his painful way towards those impossible eyes, gratified to see one turn his way right in time for Terror to slam against it. The entire tree shook, its branches thrashing wildly in their vine bonds, and the treant gave an otherworldly cry of pain.

He was raising his warhammer for a second blow when a huge weight slammed into his side, and he caught a brief glimpse of a whiskered face as he was borne to the ground.

Agony lanced up from his broken leg as the cat's weight slammed him into the damp loam. Not a nightsaber, he was sure of it. This creature had appeared out of nowhere with no hiding places anywhere nearby, and its coloring and features were different from a normal cat.

Had the druid that'd awakened this tree come to protect it? If so it should've started with the taurens who held it helpless. Professional courtesy, maybe?

Rumbling low in its throat, the purple-black creature closed powerful jaws around Terror and ripped it from Drazgh's hands, arching its neck to toss the warhammer aside.

In some circumstances a prudent gesture, but in this case it should've gone for his throat. Instead it had bared its own throat to Drazgh, and while he certainly wasn't a great cat his tusks weren't just for show.

Snarling, Drazgh jerked his head up and closed his jaws on the druid's jugular, wrapping his arms around the creature's neck to keep it from escaping. The huge cat yowled and jerked in his grip, and Drazgh could feel blood trickling into his mouth, letting him taste his enemy's strength.

But before he could begin exulting in his victory the form he held shimmered and expanded, its weight increasing. The pain in his broken leg spiked again as whatever form the druid was assuming pressed extra force against the break, and it distracted Drazgh enough that he loosed his clenched jaws just for a moment.

When he tightened them again his tusks grated painfully against hardwood.

Magical leaves swirled around the form atop him, carried by a wind of green nature magic, and the gashes in the bark and wood of the "neck" began closing. The tree made a wooden groaning noise and one stiff limb twisted down to clutch at Drazgh's throat. Long twiglike fingers closed uselessly around his gorget.

Or maybe not, with a groan he heard the metal creaking, the incredible force of wood pressing it together. Suddenly breathing wasn't so easy.

Then another snarl sounded beside him, and before he quite realized what was happening the weight of the tree atop him disappeared. He hauled himself sideways to see his frostwolf howler pinning the tree druid nearby, heavy claws scrabbling at resistant bark and jaws snapping at twiggy hands.

"Good girl," he snarled, using his arms to pull himself towards Terror. Once he had it he was able to use its length as a crude crutch to lever himself to his feet, although the pain in his leg almost threw him to the ground again.

His bitch yelped, suddenly trying to free herself as those powerful fingers finally found purchase, and he saw blood stark on her white fur.

With a growl Drazgh threw himself forward on one leg and slammed Terror into the tree's "head" with all his weight behind the blow. It shivered up his arms as if he'd struck a real living tree, rattling his teeth, but a sharp _crack_ rang through the air and the druid made an odd, woody cry as it released the wolf. Drazgh fell sideways from the force of the blow, struggling to land on his good knee, but his broken leg got in the way and he clenched his jaw around a snarl of pain.

By the time he made it back to his feet he saw that the druid was still, a huge chunk of wood split off from his blow and a crack stretching from its golden-leafed crown to nearly where its long branch-arms stretched out.

That would've been an incredibly gory wound if it hadn't been wood. Pity.

Since he'd already tasted the druid's strength he turned away, whistling to call his wolf to his side. She padded over, limping slightly on a forelimb, and dropped into a submissive crouch as he hauled himself into her saddle. He wasn't half stupid enough to jam the foot of his broken leg into the stirrup, and instead he pulled his belt free and used it to strap his leg to the girth strap just above the break.

Then he turned his bitch towards the treant, hefting Terror in his hands.

To his disappointment the druid's distraction had taken longer than he'd hoped, and others had already jumped on the animate tree. In this case it was his daughter and Ursug. They must've arrived back from patrol during the excitement.

Deneth was hacking at those wooden orbs with Render, hewing it with blow after savage blow. She'd already hacked halfway through the hardwood's trunk, and any trace of those wooden eyes had long since been obliterated. Ursug had borrowed her throwing axes and was raining blow after blow on the nearest tree-branch arm in a swift, steady pattern.

Neither one seemed to have noticed that the treant had gone still beneath them. Even the druid who'd been holding the bonds had turned away towards another treant.

"It's dead, fools!" he shouted at them, nudging his bitch their way. She didn't seem pleased about the loud noises or swinging weapons, but she went. Her limp was disappearing, and a quick inspection of her injury leaning out of the saddle showed that it was nothing. He'd give her a chance to lick the wound clean after all this was over and that would be that.

Deneth froze midswing, glancing his way, then looked down at the mess she'd made of its "face". Ursug had already leapt to his feet, looking almost embarrassed.

"Damn our hides," Drazgh snarled, looking down the length of the destroyed tree. Its flailing root-legs had torn a muddy furrow at its base. "We had sentries of our own out, patrols near and far, and they still manage to surprise us in our very camp? Those responsible for guarding this camp will lose their eyes. They weren't using them anyway!"

His daughter leaned against her axe, panting. She nodded at his ranting but gave no response, revealing nothing of her opinion of whether she thought he was correct or not.

That annoyed him. "You yourself were west, daughter," he snapped, spitting on the branch that had broken his leg. "What did you see?"

"Nothing, father. We moved quickly, but our eyes and ears were open. Not even night elves could've moved an army past us unnoticed."

"Then this is just a raid, a minor strike to keep us pinned while they gather their troops for a larger attack." Drazgh glanced over to where his warriors still fought the single remaining treant while arrows continued to rain down on them.

"Raid or not, it's the first time the purpleskins have committed to a real attack against us instead of forcing us to come to them. I intend to enjoy it." Deneth casually slung her axe over her shoulder and broke into an easy lope towards the fighting, Ursug moving to fall into step beside her with his own hammers raised.

Drazgh didn't like hearing that, because it meant his enemies had finally answered the challenge he'd been offering them constantly for the last few weeks, and he was forced to flee like a dog.

Cursing, he searched around for his dropped pack and rode his frostwolf over to it. His warhorn was strapped in its comfortable place alongside the main pocket, and with some effort he managed to lean over and yank it from its ties, pressing its mouth to his lips.

There he held it, struggling with the bitter taste in his mouth. Thirty years ago he would've called backing away from this fight cowardice. Twenty years ago it would've been running. Even ten years ago the best he could've called it would be a tactical withdrawal.

But he had no intention of pitting his hundred and fifty remaining warriors against thousands of enemies closing in from both sides. There was no honor in suicide, however you went about it.

So he drew in a breath and blew the four sharp blasts organizing his Dek'Terror first and fifth squads as rearguard, and then the three long, resonant calls signaling an organized withdrawal south.

His warriors raised a cry of protest, some actually going so far as to shake their weapons at him in fury. But Drazgh merely blew the horn's signals again. In the healer's section of camp a tauren apprentice leapt atop one of their two pack kodos and yanked the totem sticks from their holster, beginning a marching beat on the two heavy kodohide drums behind the saddle. Its noise a low beat beneath the deep thrums of Drazgh's warhorn, it filled the air and made Drazgh's veins burn with fire.

In battle those drums would spur his warriors on to greater strength and fury, but now they were calling away, away, tugging at them all with elemental force.

As squads one and five, Deneth and Ursug at their head, disappeared into the trees the remainder of his raiders fell into marching formation, closing protectively around the healers. Drazgh guided his frostwolf behind the group to nip at their flanks, keeping them moving. South, away from the enemy and from glory.

Away from certain death.

.

Eight days later Drazgh led his weary group of raiders past a Horde patrol.

As distances go Hellscream's army should've only been five or six days away, perhaps even less since it was marching their way. But having to go far south, and then constantly being forced to evade the elvish patrols that constantly tried to capture them, had added days to their march. They'd even been forced to march at night, and had twice stumbled into minor ambushes.

But as soon as Drazgh heard the his own language called to him from the trees he felt his tension easing. Behind him Deneth actually went so far as to lean wearily against Render.

Eight days of hard marching, and perhaps two full nights of sleep between them. His people were exhausted, and having to circle around the night elf army had allowed them to constantly send fresh forays against him from a uniform location.

"Aka'magosh, brothers!" the young orc bellowed, leaping up atop the fortification to salute them. "General Drazgh, is that you?"

Drazgh wiped at his face. It wasn't so bloody as to obscure his features. But then many new recruits had come and gone from the Horde army, and not all could recognize officers who rarely entered the battlefield. "Dek'akug, recruit," he growled. "Who else would it be?"

The young orc looked them over in disbelief and more than a little envy. All his people were bloody and many bore wounds. Most hadn't even had time to properly repair and clean their weapons and armor. "The Warchief gave you up for dead days ago, since our far scouts first spotted the night elf army mustering. Where did you come from?"

Drazgh threw his leg over his frostwolf's saddle and dropped to the ground, grimacing slightly at the jolt of pain. Fixing a bad break in a week required major healing, and his healers had already been pushed to their limits between being his raiding party's only source of protection against magic, superior scouts, and the wounds his orcs had taken. But a leader who couldn't function may as well not be there, and Drazgh had accepted the need to have his leg seen to.

"We came from the west, recruit. Fighting our way through night elf patrols to get here." Drazgh drew Terror and gestured with it, making sure the young orc knew he was being singled out. "Hellscream thinks us dead, does he? Go tell him he's wrong."

The orc disappeared from sight behind the embankment, save for the pounding of feet. Drazgh heard his voice fading as he ran back into the trees, shouting "Der uzath Dek'Terror kril sush'algez!"

Well, it looked like Hellscream wasn't the only one who'd hear the news of their return.

Leading his mount, Drazgh climbed up over the embankment and dropped down into the crude fortifications, ignoring the salutes of the other sentries. At the head of his weary party he followed the dwindling cries of the messenger towards the camp.

After five minutes of walking he regretted dismounting for a triumphal march into camp. Apparently Hellscream had set his perimeter sentries farther out than usual. Probably wise, considering the enemy they faced. But he gritted his teeth and kept going, trying to match the eager pace Deneth and Ursug set.

He'd be damned if he let his daughter or blood guard come into view of the Horde army first.

Soon enough they reached a clearing, loud with the sounds of goblin shredders clearing and widening the open space of trees and undergrowth. Muddy lanes between disorderly tent lines suggested that this camp was temporary, the march still under way. Still, after the deadly nature they'd been engulfed in for nearly a month the devastation of uprooted trees with no places for enemies to hide was a welcome relief.

Drazgh pointed to a patch the goblins were still clearing. "Set up there," he snapped. "I'll be reporting to Hellscream."

"Dabu." Ursug hesitated. "Can our men mingle with the army?"

He gave a weary sigh. Eight days of brutal marching, and his blood guard still asked that? "If they've the energy." He caught Ursug's shoulder, slamming his forehead against his blood guard's and meeting the veteran's eyes point-blank. "But if any orc's too tired to stand when the time comes to move out I'll feed his lazy hide to my wolf!"

"Zug zug!" Ursug broke into a trot down the line, growling orders and gesturing curtly.

Deneth took a step after him, eyes hopeful. "Father?"

"Join the others, daughter."

Disappointed, she saluted and turned towards the muddy patch where they'd set up camp. Had she really expected to be invited along to speak with the warlords of the Horde? Fool girl. For all her strength it was easy to forget how young she was.

Drazgh continued on alone into the camp, and thanks to the noisy messenger his passage didn't go unnoticed.

"Dek'uza terror!" orcs yelled after Drazgh as he passed by their fires, along with the more common cries of "Lok'tar!" and "Algez dul!"

But the first call was by far the most common, and the highest honor.

"Dek'uza terror" translated to something like "you brought them terror" or "they flee in terror". It was hard to accurately define the phrase because the concept of terror was still a relatively new and alien idea to orcs. Nothing like it had ever been witnessed on Draenor, and no race exemplified its existence as much as humans.

Drazgh understood fear. How could he not, when every living thing heard that primal scream in their mind warning them of danger? To acknowledge that fear was shameful, and acting on it purely for self-preservation considered dishonorable. Orcs may speak of fearing to die of old age or disease, but to admit you feared an honorable death on the battlefield was as good as claiming you were a peon, a coward who cringed before anyone who raised a hand to you.

But fear wasn't terror. Terror was something deeper, stronger. Whether it was something you could fight against, something beyond your power, or something that existed or didn't exist, terror was the physical embodiment of embracing defeat. It was looking at a situation and seeing the possibility of death, and instead of facing it and trying to live you turned your back on it and died for certain. It was embracing that primal self that only the races of Azeroth seemed to possess and letting it tear away reason, intelligence, and even the desire for self preservation in favor of seeking escape by any means necessary, even if only within the mind.

Drazgh had felt horror in his life. He had seen such terrible things that he wanted to flee from them, and at times he'd wondered if that was terror. But to actually flee in those instances would have been madness, and he'd never more than entertained the thought.

But he had seen the races of Azeroth display terror on numerous occasions, especially humans. He'd seen soldiers manning stalwart shieldwalls that could've slaughtered thousands of his fellow warriors before being cut through suddenly toss down their weapons and flee, giving him and his fellow orcs free rein to run among them wreaking massive slaughter with almost no casualties. He'd seen villagers who could've escaped by fleeing instead cowering motionless waiting for the blow to fall.

Humans called such a mass display of madness "breaking" and planned strategy around it. Orcish generals had in the decades since coming to Azeroth also learned to work its existence into their tactics, but every time they witnessed terror in an enemy their chief reaction was stunned disbelief that it had actually happened.

Terror was the most dishonorable thing orcs could conceive of. It was snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. It was turning from a hunter to become prey. No thinking being should feel it. Those who gave into it didn't deserve to live.

What higher praise could Drazgh and his men earn, than to have their fellow warriors see their ability to force this thoroughly stupid, dishonorable reaction from their enemies and cheer them for it?

And Dek'Terror _had_ brought terror to the night elves. Why else would they have seen signs of hundreds, even thousands of the purple-skinned creatures fleeing before two hundred warriors ill-suited to fighting enemies adept at attacking from the shadows or from the trees above? There was no strategic withdrawal, there, no regrouping for a counterattack. It was mindless flight, often lessening their chances for survival.

Drazgh held his chest puffed out as he strode through the camp, ignoring the cheers of his fellow warriors as he made his way deeper into the camp to report to Hellscream. To acknowledge praise was only a step below seeking it, but he couldn't keep a fierce grin from his features.

The center of the camp was far more organized, for here the officers and elite warriors of the Horde pitched their tents. Orcs, mostly, since Hellscream's contempt and distrust of the vassal races still seemed to be in effect. The only obvious exception to that was a large silk tent with the banner of the Sunreavers flapping over it.

Even Hellscream wasn't stupid enough to insult his mages.

Most of the tents here were arranged in circles according to which group the warriors were part of, or which warlord they served. Often those warlords led the warriors of their clan in battle, and those clans were represented here. Frostwolf, Mag'har, Warsong, Bleeding Hollow, even a few scattered Blackrock and Shattered Hand, reunited with the Horde following past campaigns.

There was also a cleared space near the center of camp where Hellscream's prizes were quartered. Chained proto drakes, heavily controlled by druid and shaman magics, and magnataurs defeated in battle and given a chance to have the carnage they desire in service to the Horde. Former enemies captured in the Northrend campaign, the creatures were fearsome foes. Drazgh wondered how they would serve as allies.

At the center of the camp stood a large pavilion watched over by Kor'kron. The warriors, many of whom had guarded Grommash Hold in the name of their Warchief, immediately recognized Drazgh. Their expressions betrayed their disbelief as they saluted and let him through into the pavilion.

Within no formal council had been in session, instead the leaders were gathered in small groups. The nearest one to the entrance had been debating tactics when Drazgh entered, as near as he could tell an argument on whether to try to get forces around past the main night elf army to assault Astranaar or to simply smash right through the defenders and carve a path to the island city in a swath of blood. Both ideas seemed somewhat reckless to Drazgh, but he didn't know all the details.

The debate fell into silence when the orcs caught sight of him. The warlords and generals seemed surprised to see him, though rumors had to have spread through the camp like wildfire at their arrival, and the messenger should've been long here and gone by now. Nazgrim, a younger general who'd risen quickly in the ranks, strode over and clasped arms with him, grinning fiercely.

"This is a surprise, General," he said. "With Alliance forces barring our way and no word from you in over a week, we all assumed you'd found a glorious death."

Drazgh grinned back, feeling cool air wash over his entire cracked tusk. "One day. Today I found glorious victory instead."

The other general had found glory of his own beneath the sea, in the alien world of night elf ruins and naga defenders. Glory and promotion, far faster than most Drazgh had seen. Perhaps most of that could be attributed to Nazgrim's youth, prowess in battle, and his unswerving loyalty to Garrosh Hellscream.

Orcs who fit those requirements could become warlords under Hellscream. Some already had.

Nazgrim was abruptly shoved aside by the towering Blackrock exile, Malkorok, who grunted at Drazgh and motioned deeper into the command pavilion, where Hellscream leaned over the same map table that had filled his chamber in Orgrimmar.

The Warchief still had his cunningly carved figures, denoting troop numbers and movements in Ashenvale. A single glance showed that most of the eastern half of the zone was filled with red, and that the combined armies from Astranaar and Felwood that Drazgh had fled numbered no more than six thousand or so troops and had joined forces just west of their current position. Hellscream's force almost doubled that.

Just north of Hellscream's current camp Drazgh saw a stylized drawing of a volcano had been stenciled in, lava flows depicted in bright orange. He hadn't seen any such landmark on maps before. Created by the Cataclysm's upheaval, perhaps? If so the night elves hadn't fared so well off the catastrophe as the Horde had with their greening lands and dry zones suddenly flooded with fresh water.

Many of the red marks east of their current position bore the tokens denoting resupply and reinforcement, several thousand fresh troops in total.

If he'd looked no farther than Ashenvale the news would've been grim for the Alliance. But the intelligence displayed on this map showed a cautiously placed army in southern Darkshore with a carved figurine of a female night elf at their head, and from eastern Felwood a force had withdrawn from Hyjal through the few open passes, led by a horned male. Both numbered easily ten thousand strong.

"Warchief," Drazgh said, saluting.

Hellscream glanced up briefly. "So it's true," he growled. "You fought your way clear. Report."

"Estimated three hundred kills and four night elf outposts sacked and burned, by name Silverwing Hold, Raynewood Retreat, Silverwind Refuge, and Darkwhisper Grove. We suffered one hundred and seventy-three casualties, mostly minor injuries, with just over three score dead."

A few of the Horde high command grunted in approval, but not as many as Drazgh had expected. For his part the Warchief's face flashed with anger. Possibly even jealousy?

"A glorious raid, General. You cached the spoils?"

Drazgh nodded. They couldn't have moved at the pace they did dragging the loot they'd taken. "I'll have my officers give the locations to your quartermasters."

"Good. Once it's collected we'll tally your share." Hellscream didn't seem to need any more details, because he simply returned to the map, gesturing curtly. "As you can see we've got a real war on our hands. Your actions have done well to anger the night elves, turning them solidly against the Horde. They're pulling all their forces to meet us, leaving their capitol and their beloved broken tree defenseless. Thrall's pandering council with the Alliance forces has fallen apart, and he himself has been taken prisoner."

Drazgh gave a start of surprise. "The Alliance and neutral factions broke parlay to take him?"

The warchief snorted. "So it seems. And why not? Word is he barely put up a fight. His own actions insult us almost as much as the actions of those who took him. Even worse, he then ordered the neutral and Horde representatives who were loyal to him to continue working with the very people who'd betrayed them."

He nodded doubtfully. Perhaps Thrall had earned this fate by being foolish enough to place his trust in the Alliance, but Drazgh wasn't so quickly willing to ignore the insult of having his former Warchief taken and held. "Are we making plans to get him back?"

The question seemed to anger Hellscream. "When we can," he snapped. "If you haven't noticed we're facing nearly thirty thousand of the enemy with less than fifteen thousand, and a good number of our casters claiming neutrality. We have to strike fast and hard, while they're still separated and struggling to join forces."

Drazgh nodded. "If I could recommend, Warchief. The druids awoke treants against us, and my scouts sighted ancients active for the first time since the Third War. The sentinels were also quick to take to the treetops with their arrows. One of the best preparations we could make for a large engagement would be to destroy as many trees around us as possible. Doing so will also anger the night elves, giving us a more worthy foe."

The Warchief snorted. "Our foe is already worthy enough. Dismissed."

Drazgh wasn't pleased, since he'd hoped to be part of these councils. It was his place, certainly, and he'd more than earned it. But he simply saluted. "Swobu, Warchief. My men are weary unto death, but they'll be ready to fight again in two days' time. We await your orders."

Hellscream's head whipped around, small, closely spaced eyes narrowing. "You failed to understand, General. You and your forces are dismissed. I'm sending you back to Orgrimmar."

Drazgh froze, stunned. "Warchief?" he asked.

"You have your orders," Malkorok growled, shoving Drazgh back a step. "The Warchief's word is law."

"But you just said we're outnumbered! My veterans will be needed in the coming battles."

"Your veterans will be needed to keep the peace in Orgrimmar," Hellscream said coldly. "Word of Thrall's capture will agitate our vassal races, and you seem more competent to deal with them than most."

Drazgh was angry, angrier than he would've liked to be in such a possibly volatile situation. It was an effort to salute and turn away without saying anything more. The other orcs in the tent studiously looked away, showing disdain for the way he'd been insulted, or at least embarrassed for his sake.

Dismissed, after such a glorious campaign. How else was he to take that but that Hellscream was threatened by his success and wanted to send him away so he could personally claim any further glory gained?

Cursing to himself, he strode through the camp, at one point shoving through a line of peons carrying provisions and sending one of the oafs sprawling with his load splashing into the muck in all directions. For a moment Drazgh gripped the handle of Terror, contemplating further chastisement for the insult of having his progress impeded. Common sense prevailed and he simply snarled at the fool and kept going.

He wouldn't sully Terror with such unworthy blood.

His Dek'Terror were still setting up camp when Drazgh arrived, and he took a moment to glare at their progress in displeasure. Could he blame their slowness on sloth, or would he give them a break and acknowledge their weariness?

Did it matter, now that they had no purpose but to scurry away with their tails between their legs?

Ursug saluted as Drazgh entered the camp, ambling over to walk alongside him. "The other warriors cheer us when we walk by," he growled. "They honor the blood we spilled."

Drazgh spat off to the side, ignoring the look of surprise his blood guard gave him at the unfavorable response. "They won't have long to do it. Order our force of raiders to prepare to march as soon as they've had some rest."

"Already? Has the Warchief so soon prepared his strike?"

He shook his head angrily. "Perhaps, but we won't be part of it. Hellscream is jealous of the honor I've gained, the praise his troops give Dek'Terror. He's sending us back to Orgrimmar."

Ursug looked around sharply. Drazgh had been speaking to his blood guard, but several Dek'Terror were in earshot of his words. The burly veteran pointedly saluted. "It will be done, General," he said as loudly as Drazgh had. Then he lowered his voice for Drazgh's ears alone. "I would speak to you."

Surprised, Drazgh nodded and let his officer lead him to the edge of their camp. "What is it, Blood Guard?"

Ursug looked around uncertainly. It was obvious he didn't want any prying ears. "You'll not be pleased to hear it, General, but it needs to be said. You've made your feelings about our Warchief clear, often and without caution. It's making our warriors . . . uneasy."

"Uneasy?" Drazgh repeated flatly.

His blood guard bridled. "Angry," he snapped. "Insulted. We do not see Garrosh as you do."

Drazgh fought to contain his anger. Ursug had been fighting at his side for decades, and a trustworthy officer like that was hard to replace. Still, the orc's ambition couldn't end with the rank of blood guard, and he might at some point decide Drazgh had grown too old to lead the Dek'Terror. Second-guessing his general was a good way to start. "And how do you see our Warchief, Blood Guard?"

"The strongest warrior the Horde has seen since his father," Ursug spat. "A cunning tactician who plans victories as easy as breathing. An orc who promises to lead us from the rock and dust of a wasteland and open our way to true glory. The glory we deserve! You should understand it better than us, you gave a rousing speech about it!"

Drazgh wasn't surprised by any of this. Hellscream's temperament made him famous among the rank and file who would share his behavior. But Ursug didn't have Drazgh's duties, didn't have to watch Hellscream bungle his way as a leader. He wouldn't understand that a leader must be more than a powerful warrior.

"I stand at Hellscream's side day after day," Drazgh replied, voice thick with warning.

The blood guard refused to back down. "Yes, you do. And you no longer walk among your troops as often as you should. Our loyalty to you is strong, but not unquestioning. We are extensions of our Warchief's will, his axe on the battlefield. When you insult him you insult us as well, and the orcs are starting to resent it."

"I see," Drazgh said. And he did. His warriors couldn't see things as he himself did, and he'd failed to properly educate them. So when he told them the truth they saw . . . what? Jealousy? Bitterness? They accused him of the same emotions he saw in Hellscream, and were even willing to support Hellscream when he brazenly stole their glory and sent them home like whipped curs on the eave of major battles?

That gave him pause, and for a brief moment he wondered if he wasn't misjudging his Warchief the same way his warriors misjudged him.

But only for a moment. No, he had been around Hellscream enough to know his demeanor, and he could trust his judgements. The Mag'har _had_ been jealous of Dek'Terror's achievements, and he _had_ sent them away to deprive them of further glory.

Still, he'd misstepped with his warriors. Simple as that. "Set your heart at ease, my Blood Guard," he said. "Hellscream leads us to glorious victory. I see no reason to doubt him." _Enough to truly balk. Yet_.

Ursug's tension eased, his shoulders settling forward slightly. "Swobu, General," he said, saluting. "We'll prepare to move out. What reason should I give?"

Drazgh frowned thoughtfully. "Word has reached us that Thrall has been taken while in parlay."

His blood guard stiffened, face darkening with rage. "What?"

"We are needed to keep things settled at home. Particularly among the vassal races." That part of Hellscream's orders was certainly true enough. Wise leadership was _always_ needed in Orgrimmar, and few of the new warlords Hellscream had raised since taking the mantle of Warchief could provide it. They were far too likely to follow Hellscream's example of sneering at the vassal races and giving deliberate or unintended insult.

Across the camp he saw his daughter cleaning her armor, Render already polished and carefully laid across a newly cleaned Eye of Hellscream tabard. She had to be as weary as the others, but while they slumped on the ground with their tongues lolling out she saw to her gear. That attention would be repaid in full when it saw to her in the heat of battle, staying strong when improperly cared for weapons and armor would fail.

She had done their family's name proud this last month, slaying her share of the enemy and earning a more than average share of loot. She could even claim a nightsaber pelt, although she viewed it as a gift from a fellow warrior.

How long now had she tested her tethers, waiting for an opportunity to prove herself? She didn't deserve to be sent home before this war had even begun, thanks to her father's success and her Warchief's jealousy.

Deneth glanced his way, inclining her head in deference, and Drazgh looked away with a scowl.

Damn this. If he couldn't serve the Horde by fighting at the front, he'd serve by making sure Hellscream had the support of his allies and all the warriors and supplies he needed. He would need them with the Alliance outnumbering them so heavily in Ashenvale.

There was less glory in such a role, but plenty of honor.


	6. Leave

Chapter Five

Leave

The eastern gates of Orgrimmar loomed ahead, at the end of the narrow ravine that wound like a serpent towards the heart of Orgrimmar. Surprisingly, even though the goblin work camps were situated on the northeast end of Orgrimmar, leading north towards the goblin holdings in Azshara, a large refugee camp had formed outside these gates as well.

Tauren, trolls, goblins, blood elves, even undead, building ramshackle structures and squatting in tents as they struggled to create better structures. Many seemed intent on moving into Ashenvale as soon as land was freed up there. Did this mean Hellscream had increased his strictures on nonorcs in Orgrimmar even further?

Drazgh glanced back at his footsore raiders. His orcs were crowding the lines, even as weary as they had to be. They were eager to be home at last, and Ursug glanced at him in question. Drazgh nodded. "Settle them in the west barracks. Advance a week's campaign pay bonus for revelry."

The officer frowned. "What about the Northrend veterans?"

"Recruit them into the Dek'Terror if they're interested. If not, advance their fair share of the spoils and send them on their way."

"The barracks are going to be crowded with the hundred recruits you ordered us to take on plus these," Ursug warned.

Drazgh bared his tusks. "Good, they'll be needed. You can start training them immediately."

Instead of responding Ursug turned to the lines. "Last run to your beds, worms!" he bellowed. "Keep pace and you'll have coin to feast and drink, fall behind and you're dragging water for the entire barracks!"

His orcs roared in response and broke into a run following the blood guard. Drazgh sat his frostwolf and let them stream by to either side, those who got too close earning a warning snap from the bitch.

As Deneth passed he leaned out of his saddle and caught her shoulder, yanking her his way. After she'd caught her balance she looked up in question. "What are your plans, daughter?"

Deneth grinned. "I've coin and battles to boast of, don't I? I'll tour every tavern and alehouse in Orgrimmar until I can't walk. Maybe I'll even find a mate."

Drazgh scowled. "Don't dishonor our family's name."

She took the warning personally, looking hurt. "I never would!" she snapped.

Drazgh nodded and released her. "Well, grunt?" he snarled. "You want to carry water for the barracks?"

Deneth glanced after the retreating backs of her fellow warriors. "But you kept-"

"No excuses, warrior! Zish-pagh!"

His daughter jumped as if Drazgh had sicced his mount after her, bolting down the road. Drazgh had no worries that she'd be able to catch up and overtake some of the others; she had the strength of youth, and more than her fair share of it.

Once they were out of sight he booted his mount forward, making his way towards Grommash Hold.

To his surprise the streets remained crowded, even with all nonorcs expelled. The orcs who'd answered Hellscream's call filled the city still, less than he'd hoped being drafted into the army or sent to other worthwhile tasks. In fact, it seemed more orcs had come.

What was to be done with them? Their forces in Ashenvale were outnumbered and desperately needed aid, but until these orcs could be properly trained and equipped they'd serve no purpose other to die. And did the Horde even have the resources to equip and feed them at this time?

Because he was riding his wolf the crowds parted for him, far more willingly than they would've were he on foot, even in his armor. Before too long he was giving his mount's reins to a wrangler outside the hold, who expertly fended the bitch's aggressive motions and disappeared with her towards the worg corrals.

Inside the Warchief's chamber he found the throne unoccupied. It was nearly the only unoccupied space, with dozens of dignitaries lined up apparently waiting for aid that wasn't forthcoming. Most of them were members of a vassal race. Who was in charge of seeing to their petitions, and where by the graves of his forefathers was he?

"Ah, General. Good to see you safely returned from your raid."

Drazgh started and looked over, then down, to see Overseer Blitwhistle looking up at him solemnly. "Overseer," he growled.

"News from the front is sadly lacking, at least to my ears. How did you fare?"

"We slew over three hundred night elves and incurred around threescore losses."

"Impressive." The green goblin shifted, looking strangely restive. "Would you like to hear something hilarious?"

It took effort not to rub his brow. He was weary, drained from restless nights full of nightmares and days filled with hard marching. He wanted nothing more than his home, to stoke the fire to intense heat and sit sweating naked before it, using his knife to scrape away all the filth of the campaign along with his sweat. But his duties to the Horde came before such personal considerations, and courtesy was a kindly ally to orcs of his position. "Do tell, Overseer."

"The refugees who answered the Warchief's call to gather have monstly been conscripted. The majority of them were tasked to return to their own farms and continue producing off them." The goblin actually lost enough of his reserve to chortle.

Drazgh frowned. "I fail to see the humor."

"Don't you? Inducted into the war effort by Garrosh, they're doing the same work as before, only twice as much of it and for half the personal benefit. And they couldn't be happier about the situation!" Blitwhistle's reserve slipped another fraction and he cackled.

"If so many peons are back at their farms then why is the city still flooded with refugees?"

The goblin chuckled. "Another point of humor. Half the orcs doing twice the work at the Warchief's command. What are the others to do now? At the moment they're waiting around for land in Ashenvale to open up so they can begin farming once more. Or to be drafted into the army so they can fight." Blitwhistle shook his head. "Yet Garrosh has recruited them _all_, and until they can be assigned has ordered they _all_ be given rations from the Horde stockpiles. Am I really the only one who sees how funny this all his?"

Drazgh found himself rubbing his brow after all, weariness settling over him like a blanket. It was impossible to understand the goblin mind. How Blitwhistle found humor in orcs doing their part for the war, for the benefit of all, was beyond him. Some of the food those farmers would produce was destined to feed his own orcs, keep them strong to fight their way to victory.

"Excuse me, Overseer," he said, starting deeper into the hold and his own tasks.

Blitwhistle cleared his throat politely behind him. "I feel it begs to be said, General. While Thrall led as Warchief many farmers and other workorcs held back their tribute."

Drazgh whirled, scowling. "What exactly are you suggesting, goblin?" he demanded.

The overseer's reserve had returned in full force. "I suggest nothing, General, I only provide facts. Under Thrall the orcs did not pay. Under Hellscream they willingly pay double. For the sake of the Horde I hope you can find an interpretation for these facts that will aid you in performing your duties wisely."

Drazgh's scowl deepend. "You provide facts, eh? What in the name of ancestors past are you doing here, anyway?"

Blitwhistle blinked. "Doing, General? I'm taking care of all of this, as should be obvious."

"By whose orders? Were you promoted in my absence?"

The goblin shrugged slightly. "Alas, things must be done. When no one steps up to do those things, or indeed is even capable of managing them properly, the burden of total responsibility falls upon the person most capable of assuming it. If I may say, capability is a curse where you assume all of the work, and all of the blame, but none of the reward."

"I would say your influence is growing rapidly, Overseer. You're assuming more and more of the management of Horde affairs. I'd call that reward enough."

Blitwhistle frowned slightly. "General, you wound me. I assure you the tasks I assume are all thankless, bureaucratic work no one notices save to criticize. Those I answer to receive all of the praise for the successes I work tirelessly to see happen, arranging every vital minor detail they would sneer at." Another slight shrug of narrow shoulders. "Truth be told, now that you're here you'll likely receive most of the benefit of my efforts, and it will be you who'll be commended by the Warchief for my successes."

_Apparently you don't understand Hellscream any better than I understand bureaucracy_. "Your efforts aren't totally thankless, Overseer," he said grudgingly. "But don't think your newfound influence is without oversight."

The goblin's face became carefully blank once more. "I hadn't expected such . . . subtlety . . . from an, ah, warrior. I don't think I've ever received such a backhanded compliment combined with an equally covert threat. Perhaps my burden has found another set of capable shoulders to share it."

_Damn it_, Drazgh thought, wondering what he'd just taken on. "What about your duties at the manufactory? Our army in Ashenvale is about to be outnumbered nearly two to one, Hellscream's going to need that fleet you promised him."

Blitwhistle frowned slightly. "My second, Hal, has taken up my duties at the manufactory as I assume this vital work. He's more than competent to keep the Cartel goblins motivated. As for the Warchief's workers, well, Overseer Griznakh's idea of motivation is working the oafs to death, so no worries there. The work progresses."

"Not the answer I was looking for, Overseer. I was hoping you'd tell me you were ahead of schedule. Do you understand how vital that fleet is to our success?"

"I understand it better than you could imagine, General. Even our Warchief realizes the edge the Alliance has in magical power, especially with so many Horde druids and shamans going neutral following the lead of Thrall and Archdruid Runetotem. Since he knows he can't reach that level of magical might, he's made the wise decision of turning to engineering to even the odds."

"And will it?" Drazgh demanded. "The Horde needs more than empty promises."

Blitwhistle nodded solemnly. "Yes, I understand the orcish distrust of anything that doesn't involve slamming a blunt object into your enemy's face. But do bear in mind that orcs have been relying on goblin technology for transportation and extra firepower since the Second War. While we haven't been around quite as long as your warlocks or shamans, we do certainly deserve an honorable mention in the Horde's successes."

"Don't speak to me of warlocks," Drazgh growled.

The overseer blinked. "Of course, General. My apologies. You are aware, however, that the Warchief has approved the use of warlocks under, ah, carefully supervised conditions?"

Of course Drazgh was aware of it. How many unique ways could Hellscream be called a fool? "So since you fully understand the need, how about you tell me again about deadlines? Our contract-"

The goblin looked annoyed. "The Warchief has diverted necessary funds for parts and materials to his Ashenvale campaign, promising compensation once the spoils from his victories there start flooding in. As to pay, we're already working for free in expectation of wages in full on completion of the fleet. I may be a genius, General, but even I can't work in the red."

Drazgh scowled. "You'll "work in the red" if you don't meet obligations. I hear excuses when I want to hear results."

Blitwhistle sighed. "Am I talking to a wall, General? I'd expected better from you. I _can't_ do what's needed if I don't have the resources, and the Warchief has taken those resources from me. Yelling and threatening is not going to change that fact."

Drazgh spat off to the side. "Funds will be found for what you need, however I can scrape them together. But I'm pushing up the deadline."

For a moment he thought Blitwhistle was going to argue further, but instead he merely made an annoyed sound. "You want to worry about excuses? Perhaps _you_ can meet the petitioners who have so patiently awaited the attention of Horde leadership. Warlord Draknal doesn't seem able to tear himself away from the Cleft and the gladiator battles he funds out of his private holdings."

Drazgh glanced at the line of supplicants, the waiting dignitaries, and frowned. There _were _a lot of people there, more even than the days when Hellscream didn't seem interested in answering petitions. And Draknal was spending all his time watching slaves battle in the arena?

A minor but potentially important detail caught his eye. "Where's Vol'jin's stand-in? I've never seen the troll representative absent from this chamber during daylight hours."

Blitwhistle winced slightly. "Ah, returning to unpleasant responsibilities so soon after entering the city? I admire your dedication, although a good leader needs his rest."

"Why unpleasant? Answer the damn question!"

"Ambassador Jirz'len has been, ah, encouraged to leave the city. According to my discreet inquiries she is currently residing in the west gate refugee camps, although there's indication she is planning to travel. Likely back to her home in the Echo Isles now that they've been retaken."

Drazgh cursed and dropped onto the bench along the edge of the round room. "And who "encouraged" her?"

Large, cunning eyes regarded him blankly. "Why the Warchief, of course."

"Explain."

Blitwhistle shrugged again. "Coming on a month and a half ago Chieftain Vol'jin was ordered to send his warriors to aid in the invasion of Ashenvale. He himself was politely declined an invitation. Vol'jin's answering missive was, ah, less than polite, but he informed our Warchief that trollish aid would not be forthcoming until Hellscream personally summoned him and negotiations were begun in earnest concerning troll interests within the Horde."

Drazgh cursed. "After the fool threatened Hellscream's life? There's not a rat's chance in the Nether of that happening."

"Indeed. And until Vol'jin sends the support he is honor bound to send, no troll will be welcome in Garrosh's sight. Our Warchief has even spoken, idly I hope!, of sending a force of Kor'kron to subdue the trolls as Thrall did with the Forsaken."

"Ancestors look away!" Drazgh snarled, slamming his fist against the wall.

"Yes, many of the present representatives and advisors displayed a similar reaction to the Warchief's words." Blitwhistle shook his head. "Odd, wouldn't you say? The Darkspear tribe's initial induction into the Horde came unconditionally, and they've been staunch allies ever since. Only now that Garrosh Hellscream leads do they begin to balk. A pity Thrall isn't here to talk reason to his friend."

Drazgh narrowed his eyes. He certainly wasn't one to talk when it came to criticizing their Warchief, but it still galled to hear this tiny creature mocking an orc. "Thrall's been taken by the Alliance."

Sober eyes regarded him. "Yes, I'd heard." Blitwhistle's shoulders sagged in surprising weariness. "Have you simply come to place more burdens on me after all, General? I need aid."

"You'll have it, then." Drazgh jerked his head towards the waiting dignitaries. "Starting with them. I'll start hearing their petitions now."

The goblin shook his head and started away, motioning for Drazgh to follow. "I'm afraid you can't hear their petitions until you understand them, unless you want to start piling up diplomatic incidents left and right. I've carefully recorded their complaints for Draknal's eyes, but he is unwilling even to let me read them out to him as he watches slaves butcher each other."

The goblin disappeared into a room, and when Drazgh followed he suddenly had an idea of why the warlord wasn't interested in hearing them read.

It would take days. There were dozens of piles of parchment filled with tiny, neat scribblings stacked on every surface. Hadn't this been a work nook at one time? He couldn't even _see_ the table or chair that should have been in there.

Drazgh stared at the neatly stacked piles of paper in disbelief. "This is the slack you've been picking up?"

Blitwhistle looked surprised. "What? No, these are only the petitions of redress from nonorc Horde affiliates currently living in the goblin work camps after being invited to leave Orgrimmar. Only a tiny portion of the procedural busywork I've had dumped on me since Hellscream dragged most of his advisors and governors away to war and left a void of leadership."

"Ancestors, this is just complaints from former Orgrimmar residents? Is there one from every single one of them?"

The goblin shrugged. "A considerable number. Surprising, what abruptly being booted from your home and made a refugee will do to your standard of living." The goblin smiled thinly. "But on the upside, fine upstanding orc officers suddenly have comfortable houses within the city they can earn as a reward for faithful service. Have I yet offered you a belated congratulations on your own dwelling, earned at the end of the Northrend campaign?"

Drazgh scowled. "I earned that house before Hellscream started booting vassal races from Orgrimmar!"

"Yes, and imagine the envy your peers have suffered since. Happily, most no longer have cause for complaint." Before Drazgh could respond Blitwhistle reached over to the nearest stack and picked up a parchment. "Shall we begin?"

.

"You set the stage for this war."

Thrall started awake, pushing out of the comfortable bed he'd been given and looking blearily at the doorway. The elements should have warned him of the approach of anyone to his guest room turned prison. Perhaps some other voice had pulled them from his control while he slept.

Varian Wrynn, King of the nation of Azeroth, stood at the doorway, looking at him with dark eyes. He was dressed for war, in black and silver plate armor with a helmet crested with ebony horsehair tucked under one arm, two wicked swords strapped to his back. A golden lion roared on the chest of his tabard, the field such a dark blue it too was almost black, a work of art in its detail and splendor.

Every time Thrall had seen the scarred human rage had burned in those eyes. Varian was haunted by a dark past, one which gave him no reason to love the orcs.

Yet in spite of that he'd shown himself to be a fair leader, willing to listen to the voice of even those he considered his enemies. Peace would not have been possible without his aid.

Was that over with, now? Thrall wanted to demand news of the world, of the struggles against Deathwing he'd failed to take part in imprisoned uselessly in this night elf dwelling, but the rage in the human's eyes gave him pause. He couldn't afford to remain trapped here any longer. Not when the world needed him.

Not when his people needed him.

"I did," Thrall agreed, settling into a cautious stance facing the human. His questions would have to wait. "By passing the mantle of Warchief on to Garrosh when I stepped down I opened the door for him to stage these assaults. I accept responsibility for that, King of Stormwind. I had hoped he'd learned better what I had to teach him." Thrall stepped forward, unable to keep all his desperation from his voice. "But keeping me imprisoned here is a mistake. You of all people know I have spent my life struggling to build a lasting peace between Horde and Alliance. Between orcs and humans."

Varian nodded grudgingly, though rage still burned in his eyes. "I'm willing to acknowledge all you've done for the peace, Thrall. I even grudgingly accept that you're a noble and decent leader, one I am always glad to see on the other side of the negotiating table. But when I said you set the stage for this war I wasn't speaking of Garrosh. Long before that pinheaded Mag'har ever knew of your existence you'd already laid the groundwork for conflict, making it inevitable."

Thrall's jaw tightened, tusks grinding against his upper teeth. "This is a harsh accusation, Wrynn. Are you accusing me of deception, of ulterior motives?"

"I'm accusing you of lack of foresight, blind idealism, and an inability to understand your own people. Will you hear me?"

Thrall hesitated a moment, then grudgingly returned to sit on his bed, motioning for Varian to take the room's only chair. "I would offer you food or drink, but my jailors only sporadically remember my needs." Weeks he'd been here, as far as he could tell from the light that managed to peek through his window, boarded up after his rooms had become a cell. Perhaps months. And he was lucky if food and drink arrived every few days.

Varian ignored that, moving to sit in the chair. He leaned forward, rage-filled eyes blazing as he stared at Thrall. Amazing that his voice could be so calm, his thoughts so reasoned, when such anger burned in him. "Before I begin answer me a question, Thrall. Jaina has told me that you settled your people in Durotar as penance for their crimes in the First and Second wars. A trial of fire to scour bloodlust from your people, to break them down so you could set them to a better path."

Thrall nodded. "My friend has told you true, your Majesty. Because of my upbringing and my own suffering, I was able to see the devastation wrought by my people better than any other orc. And I saw that if we were to truly survive as a people, on Azeroth or Outland, we must abandon our old ways and make restitution for our past actions."

The scarred human nodded slowly. "Restitution. That is a good word. Tell me, shaman, how does your penance in Durotar accomplish restitution?"

An interesting question. Thrall frowned thoughtfully. "We suffer as we've made others suffer. We are brought low, stripped of our arrogance, and from there we can see and appreciate how our actions have done the same to others."

"I see. It's good you wish to make recompense for your people's actions. The war brought by the Old Horde caused unbelievable death and suffering, and is an atrocity that should never have happened and should never happen again. But the question is, has your penance worked?" Before Thrall could answer Varian abruptly stood. "Let me tell you, Thrall. You are on the inside, looking out. Constantly battling your people and their nature as you struggle to lead them on the path you've envisioned for them. You perhaps cannot see what I've seen."

"Because as I see it, you missed the mark in every respect. Settling your people in Durotar could never have changed them the way you wanted, or made them come to respect humans and sorrow at what they've done to my people. In fact, just the opposite."

Thrall opened his mouth to object, but those burning eyes silenced him.

"The orcs who weren't part of the atrocities of the First and Second wars, too young to have partaken or born and raised among the peaceful Mag'har in Outland, would see your penance as injustice, punishing them for a crime they didn't commit. And those who were part of the Old Horde wouldn't see it as penance at all, but as your human weakness showing through. No one was truly able to understand or appreciate what you were doing. They only saw you bringing suffering to them, harming your own people. Making your children starve and your warriors toil needlessly with no hope of anything better.

"And it didn't help them sympathize with the humans your people had harmed, either. True penance, true restitution, should involve aiding those you've harmed to undo some of the damage you've caused. Not only would this do positive good for those who need it, but it would teach your people empathy, bring them close to humans and let them see their suffering and their humanity. It would create ties that would make our two peoples one day friends and allies."

Varian's eyes darkened further, his face tightening into a scowl. "Instead you chose to bring suffering on your own people. You tried to make individuals atone for the actions of an entire race. You set them apart, where they couldn't see humans or interact with them. You put them in a barren cage where they had no future, only endless toil and suffering. And because of it your people saw humans and the Alliance races as their jailors, with you our willing accomplice. With every year that passed they came to despise your penance, mock your supposed human weakness, and itch at the bonds you'd placed on them.

"And they hated the Alliance more and more, especially as we refused them resources. Garrosh saw it and spoke true at the failed Theramore peace summit, did he not? At least from the perspective of your people."

"We did need the aid you refused to give us," Thrall growled.

Wrynn's face spasmed with anger. "And why not refuse, when the Horde has brought us nothing but war and continue to attack and kill those we set to defend against their violence?"

Thrall's eyes had been downcast throughout this speech. Now he looked up slowly. "I . . . see. There is much to your words, an understanding of my people that perhaps I have never truly gained."

Wrynn's lips pulled back in a grimace that might've been intended to be a smile. "You were raised among humans and learned to understand them. It could be said that during my servitude, fighting at the whim of Orcish masters, I was raised by orcs. I lost my youthful innocence and learned much of the underlying savagery and barbarity of your people. A darker side to your race that you've never truly experienced and refuse to see."

"Show it to me now, then," Thrall pled. "Tell me what's happened, so I can think of a way to make it right. It's been so long, the situation has to have escalated to violence and bloodshed I could have helped prevent."

Wrynn's eyes tightened further, but he only moved towards the door, gesturing curtly. "Come, Thrall. I will show you instead. While you were Warchief, putting impossible burdens on your people and demanding they understand concepts you couldn't effectively teach them, they boiled and stewed. You were like the lid of the pot holding them in place as the pressure grew and grew. If you hadn't stepped down and put Garrosh, the epitome of all the problems of the Orcish people you've created, as your replacement, then they would've blown up and deposed you anyway. I can almost guarantee it. But even as it is as soon as the lid you imposed on their behavior was taken away they exploded with the violence of a decade and more of pent up bitterness. Into Ashenvale."

Thrall silently followed the human king, troubled and thoughtful. He had many dreams for his people, but unlike Varian Wrynn suggested he understood their nature all too well. Their identity as a race had been stripped away when Ner'zhul and his demon-worshipping lieutenants shaped the Old Horde into the image of the Burning Legion.

It had been further eroded in the Lordamere Internment Camps after the end of the Second War, when his people had been imprisoned in the most dishonorable way an orc could imagine. Perhaps the humans had imagined themselves merciful, not killing their defeated enemy, but while Thrall was grateful his people hadn't been eradicated the internment camps had still destroyed their spirit in a way no human could truly understand.

They hardly remembered their identity anymore. They were lost and broken, looking to anyone of strength who could give them pride and hope for the future. He'd hoped he could be that person, but he hadn't counted on how shallow his influence had been. They'd followed him blindly because he led them, because he was strong. But they hadn't learned any of the lessons he'd sought to teach. And when a new leader had risen among them, one who brought them the violence they hungered for and the greatness they craved, they'd tossed Thrall aside and embraced him with all their hearts.

If Garrosh was replaced by some other leader with some other notion of honor, would the orcs then embrace that leader's vision just as zealously?

Varian led him, not to some other chamber, but outside to where two hippogryphs perched on a terrace, heads tucked under wings as their feathers were buffeted by a smoky wind from the southeast. Ash and smoke in huge quantities, carried all this distance from Ashenvale and bringing with it a storm. Thrall mounted behind the slender female night elf rider on the nearest one, Varian leaping atop the other. It had no rider of its own, instead a druid in storm crow form held its reins before it with razor talons and led it forward, occasionally shrieking back some command or warning Thrall couldn't understand but the large half-raven, half-stag seemed able to.

In silence they departed, battling the sooty winds to make their way towards Ashenvale.

.

Deneth pushed into the tavern, baring her tusks in pleasure. A leisurely day spent arranging her new pelt on her bed, napping, and feasting was giving way to a night of drinking. Her fellow Dek'Terror had seemed content with the last tavern she'd visited, remaining there while she moved on. She had no idea what this one was called, as it had no name other than the mug carved crudely onto the door. The refugees had brought a flood of new business, and this looked to have been a onetime dwelling converted into a drinking house. Its name was probably the same as that of its proprietor.

She stepped to the bar and nodded to that owner, a grizzled orc veteran with a stump for a right arm and an oddly twisted leg. "Ale," she growled. As he nodded she turned away, looking around the room.

Eyes met hers, curious. She'd removed her armor and wore only her belt knife, feeling oddly naked after weeks spent in full battle regalia. It was an odd mixture of discomfort and relief to not have that weight on her shoulders.

A thump brought her attention to the dirty mug the tavernkeep brought, and she paid him and nodded, taking a large gulp. Only her sixth for the night, since she'd decided to have one mug at every tavern she visited. She'd have to hurry if she was going to really enjoy herself.

The ale was good, at least, seedy as the surroundings were. She didn't recognize the brew but it had a clean, strong flavor. Taking another gulp she made her way to a nearby empty table.

Halfway there a large figure moved into her path. "I recognize you," the young orc said, eying her openly. "You're Deneth Limbrender."

Deneth stopped and swallowed another mouthful from her mug, smiling in spite of herself. She thought she recognized this orc as well, although she wasn't sure from where. "You've heard of my prowess in battle?"

The male didn't smile back. "I've heard you don't like mating."

If he was trying to start trouble, he succeeded. Deneth's half-empty mug slammed into the side of his head hard enough to shatter the thick pottery, sending him reeling to the ground.

As a few other patrons in the bar hooted and jeered Deneth lazily loomed over him. "I like it just fine," she said with an inviting smile. "Or I would if I ever got a chance to see what it was like. I've never found anyone with the balls to take me down."

The young grunt surged to his feet, ale and blood dripping down the side of his head. He clenched his fists, making his muscles bulge along his arms and chest. Deneth had to admit he was well built for his age, showing off his physique in an open vest.

She kept her arms at her side, keeping the invitation open. "Well?" she asked. "You want to fight or mate? Either way you're going to fail and walk away humiliated."

For a moment she hoped he'd actually try. Then his fists dropped and he bared his tusks. "I'm Jizak Quickeye. You didn't see me, but I fought beside you in Ashenvale. You're out of my league." He leaned down and pulled another chair towards the table she'd been making for, gesturing an invitation for her to sit. "Your mug is empty and it's my fault. Should I buy you another one?"

Surprised, Deneth nodded and sprawled back in the offered seat, watching him go. She was used to males either avoiding her or trying (and failing), to mate with her. But if this warrior wanted to swap tales of the campaign she'd welcome the camaraderie.

Moments later he was back with two mugs. A new one for her, and his own mostly empty mug. Deneth had already finished hers by the time he downed the last few swallows of his own, and she was standing to go when he called her back.

"I'll buy you another," he offered. "I want to hear of Drazgh the Terror's campaign in Northrend."

Deneth hesitated. "I'd wanted to visit every tavern tonight."

Jizak bared his tusks again. "That would be impossible. Besides, there's plenty of time, and why walk away from free ale?"

After only a moment's thought Deneth nodded and sat down once more. Free ale wasn't something you turned down, after all, and while she might've preferred to talk about her own exploits there were a lot of good stories she'd heard from her father's time in Northrend.

Jizak kept her ale coming, although he only rarely refilled his own mug. She guessed he was drinking one for every two she downed, although he kept her distracted with talk. After she wearied of talking about her father he began comparing their time in Ashenvale, and soon they were swapping boasts.

It was only after her fourth mug to his second full one that she finally called him out. "Are we drinking or mulling over our last mug like ancient withered weaklings?" she taunted. "Come on, a challenge. We drink until we can't any more, and whoever is still standing pays for the lot."

The young male hesitated. "I'd already had several before you came in."

"The way you've been drinking?" Deneth sneered, feeling reckless. She didn't often drink this much, but she knew she held her ale well. "All right then, I'll go first. All you have to do is match me when I can't drink another gulp." She motioned to the crippled tavernkeep, and he began bringing over mugs. A crowd formed around their table as interested orcs settled in to watch. There was nothing orcs liked more than a challenge.

As soon as he plopped the first one down she immediately began chugging it, urged on by the spectators. And by the time the second one arrived she was ready to pick it up and start on it as well.

This ale as stronger than some she'd had, if weaker than the really good makes. Six mugs so quickly on top of what she'd already drank in other taverns hit her surprisingly fast. Even so, she was more worried about overfilling her belly than she was getting drunk.

The third mug into the challenge she felt slightly dizzy. By the time she'd finished the fourth she was swaying. She had to wait a bit for her stomach to settle, to the grumbled complaints of the onlookers, and it was Jizak's sneer that urged her on to a fifth and then a sixth.

She missed the handle of the seventh mug the first two times she tried to grab it, and it was physically difficult to swallow it on a full stomach. But she somehow managed to keep going, her head swirling as she tipped it far back to take the last few mouthfuls. Around her orcs were cheering, since she now had nine mugs on the table in front of her and they'd seen one of those mugs get refilled three times.

It wasn't particularly impressive, but after what she'd already drank at other taverns she was well beyond the most she'd ever had before.

Deneth slammed the mug awkwardly down to the cheers of the onlookers, but before she could focus bleary eyes on her challenger to throw him a taunt her chair tipped out from under her and she sprawled back on the floor.

It wasn't until she felt the distant pain in her cheek and jaw that she realized she'd been hit. She was mulling over this surprising development when an incredible weight settled on her, and she looked up blearily to see Jizak kneeling above her, fumbling at her breeches and his own at the same time.

Deneth bucked her hips and flailed her arms, trapped beneath his knees. For a moment she felt outraged. He'd backed down from an open invitation, forced drink after drink on her and finally challenged her to go first in a drinking competition, just so she'd be less of a challenge when he worked up the courage to initiate mating?

His hands felt good down there, though. Rough and possessive. And when she bucked her hips he bucked right back, pushing something large and solid between her legs. He was just drunk enough himself that he was having trouble getting her breeches down off her hips, and for an eternal moment Deneth was tempted.

She had never mated before, and she'd wondered for so long what it would be like. It would be so easy to fight her best in her drunken state and let him win, just so she could finally experience it. And he was big and strong and had nice, heavy features. Especially the nice, heavy feature pressing between her legs. The thought of mating with him was making her hot where their clothed bodies shoved against each other.

But no. She'd heard of other orc women mating while too drunk to properly resist. Or their resistance looked a lot like helping make it happen. They were always mocked for it, scorned as weak and easy and no better than a slave to be dragged to bed and used.

So Deneth went mockingly still and submissive beneath him. "You decided to get me drunk before trying anything?" she slurred at his blurry form above her. "What am I, a human?"

Jizak froze, one hand around his member and the other resting heavy against her sex. "Fight," he hissed at her. "Come on, you said you wanted to see what it was like."

"From a coward who uses ale as his weapon because his muscles aren't enough?" She said this loud enough for the entire bar to hear. There were a few amused murmurs. And some not so amused ones. But no other males were dishonorable enough to want to come fight Jizak and claim a drunk, unresisting female for himself.

The young warrior glared at her, fist tight around his member. "I could just keep going," he hissed. "What are you going to do to stop me?"

What the hell was he talking about? That was the _point_ of mating. If you were actually honorable. Her ale-soaked mind suddenly snapped onto a memory, and abruptly Deneth recognized Jizak as one of the orcs who'd been waiting to mate with that sentinel, more than a month ago now. Hadn't he been sent to work a farm like the lowliest peon?

Deneth laid back on the ground, putting her hands submissively behind her head. "Not a damn thing," she purred. "And you'd take me like this too, wouldn't you? Just like you'd take a female after a stronger male had already subdued her, right?"

This humiliation was too much for Jizak. He surged to his feet, awkwardly pulling his breeches up, and staggered out of the bar.

Deneth reluctantly tied the laces of her own breeches and stumbled to her feet, righting her chair and sinking down at her table. Nine empty mugs greeted her, reminding her of the uncomfortable fullness of her bladder. Good thing Jizak hadn't tried to continue or she might've pissed all over him.

The other bar patrons were still staring at her. "What's an orc have to do to get laid around here?" she said, slapping one of the few empty spaces on her table. "Come on, someone come drink fourteen mugs then take a shot at me. Let's keep this party going."

To her disappointment no one took her up on her offer. With a sigh Deneth stumbled to her feet, wandered outside, and found a convenient space beside the building to squat and relieve herself. From the smell she was obviously not the first to use it.

The fun had gone out of the night's revelry. She was dizzy, her head was pounding, her stomach was slightly queasy, and she'd just been humiliated in front of over a dozen orcs. Abruptly she decided she was too tired for more. Exhausted, really. She stumbled out onto the street and turned west.

When she got home she found her father naked in front of a fire built to a roaring blaze, using the heat to coax sweat from his skin so he could scrape it and the accumulated filth of the campaign away with his dagger.

He glanced over at her when she entered. She didn't know what he'd spent the day doing, but he looked as tired as she felt. "You come home late," he said mildly. "You have a chance to drink away some of the tension of campaigning?"

"Some." Deneth swayed slightly, tempted by the thought of similarly cleansing herself. Bed sounded nice, but a sweat bath sounded nicer. So she peeled off her dirty clothes and came to sit cross-legged beside him, letting the heat pour over her. Drunk as she was the heat was unpleasant, but at least it didn't take long before she was sweating heavily. Even her sweat stank of ale. She fumbled through her breeches for her belt knife and began scraping away, starting at her inside joints where she stank the most.

Drazgh glanced over at her, knife pausing. "Something troubling you, daughter?"

Deneth hesitated. "How can anyone who calls himself an orc stand do something dishonorable? Even if his actions weren't publicly known, how could he stand knowing what he'd done?"

Her father turned back to the flames, resuming his scraping. His muscles were growing looser and saggier with age, but the scars covering his body spoke of long decades as a warrior. "Be wary of those you don't know who speak of honor, daughter," he finally said. "Speaking of honor is an easy way for the dishonorable to make themselves appear honorable, and many even believe their own lies. Few like to see their own dishonor. But if you look at an orc's actions they will always tell you the truth."

Deneth nodded slowly, scraping the sharp blade across her armpit. It was sharp enough to shave a few of her hairs there off, and to avoid such an unsightly blemish she used the dull side to scrape. "Tonight a young male from our campaign in Ashenvale tried to get me drunk so I couldn't put up a fight."

Her father froze, face flushing darkly. "Who?" he asked. Suddenly his knife looked a lot less like a scraping tool and more like a weapon.

She shook her head wearily. That had just slipped out. Normally she had better control even when drunk. "I shamed him and he fled. His dishonor is worse than a beating you or I could give."

Drazgh hesitated for an angry moment more, then shrugged and went back to cleansing himself. "I worry about you, daughter," he said quietly. "Our leaders prove themselves unworthy, and the others adopt their wrongheaded honor code without question. I sometimes despair of an honorable leader ever rising to lead us, and it's obvious we can't lead ourselves without swaying to the whim of any hero that steps forward to be worshipped. Drek'thar hoped that leader would be Thrall, but he disappointed us."

Deneth shifted uncomfortably, wondering how the conversation had shifted to their leaders. Her father was talking more and more of these sorts of things, and it was increasingly giving her cause to worry about him. Especially when others who spoke of such things, even the slightest bit critical of Garrosh or his policies, were being shunned by the community. Her father was a hero, and he deserved more than to live his waning years being hated as an upstart. "You shouldn't despair of the Orcish race just yet, father. We're not half so bad as you think we are. Garrosh shows us the way."

For a moment he looked furious, but then he relaxed and looked over at her, giving her a lopsided smile. "Ah, if only others were half as honorable as you, daughter. You deserve to be among true orcs like yourself."

She opened her mouth to argue further, then thought about it. She certainly wouldn't mind being among true orcs if it meant she could finally find a mate. "Know of any?" she asked wryly.

It was meant to be a joke, but her father took the question seriously. "I grew up in Ner'zhul's Horde," he said quietly. "I'm not sure I'd know one if I saw one."

With that he stood up, the motion more cautious and hesitant than she'd expected, and strode over to pick up a bearskin from his bed. Wrapping it around himself he sprawled across the furs, and before long was snoring.

By the time Deneth finished her sweat bath her father had started to mutter and thrash in his sleep, dreaming the old dreams. He'd been doing that more and more, of late.

With a sigh she made for her own bed, wishing she didn't have to be alone.

Would it truly be dishonorable to let a good, strong orc overpower her? As long as he wasn't _too_ much weaker than her, that was. Could she accept being the mate of an inferior if it meant she was finally being mated?

More troubling than those treacherous thoughts was the fact that she didn't have a good answer by the time she fell asleep.

.

They flew in silence for hours, the majestic hippogryphs constantly battling the smoky gale that blew from the site of battle. The rider Thrall sat behind was tense, hostile, answering no words he spoke and flinching at every touch. He'd hoped to get some answers from her but eventually gave up.

Finally their hippogryphs swooped low, towards a large lake dominated by a massive populated isle in the center. In the darkness he caught sight of an even larger campsite sprawling out around the shores of the lake, bonfires burning in siege. Just beneath them, still miles from the lake and the besieging army, the trees moved and shifted in patrol patterns, hinting at a night elf army hidden in the forest. There was no way to guess at its numbers.

So there was some news. Astranaar stood still, but the warriors of the Horde had it surrounded, and to the west the besiegers faced an Alliance army. Astranaar's walls bristled with night elves, and though it was hard to judge in the night he thought their numbers may be close to matching the numbers of the army besieging them.

The smoke came from those constant fires, which had devoured the lakeside forest to clear a way for the Horde camp and hinted at still more trees being cut and tossed to the flames. Thrall understood that the trees were a dangerous resource for the night elves, but he still mourned the waste of seeing so many cut down and not even put to good purpose as useful lumber.

Apparently the rider in front of him felt the same. She hissed in a sharp breath, then began wailing in her flowing tongue, half chant, half song of lament for her beautiful forest. Up ahead the storm crow leading Wrynn's hippogryph shrieked its own lament.

But rather than leading them down onto the island the druid kept them going forward, even turned them slightly to the northeast.

With that a detail that had been nagging Thrall as he looked down at the siege below abruptly became obvious.

Where were the signs of battle? The two forces were evenly matched, and with the night elf army to the west the Horde was possibly even outnumbered. Yet even if the battle had happened weeks ago he saw no sign of a trampled battlefield, graves, pyres, or anything else that would suggest a fight.

Of course the Horde may have encamped over the site of the battle, disguising the signs, but he had a hard time believing anyone would want to sleep on a field of slaughter unless they absolutely had to, and the army certainly didn't have to.

Had the night elves raised no protest? Had they simply sat back and let the Horde surround Astranaar and split their forces in half uncontested?

The answer was not quick in coming. Almost an hour passed before he caught sight of a glow up ahead, which the druid banked them towards. Now they finally began dropping altitude in preparation to land.

Some of the light was torches, dozens of them, arrayed around a clearing where thousands of bodies were being arranged in orderly lines. Even as he watched he saw bears and large elks pulling wagons piled with bodies to add to the lines.

But most of the light was two massive fires at one end of the clearing. Wagons were dragging bodies here, too, orcs and tauren and even a few blood elves and goblins to be tossed onto the bonfires. From what Thrall could see not nearly as many as the bodies being lined up, although in one of the fires the silhouetted bones of a large creature were a dark smudge. A dragon?

The hippogryphs set down not far from the two bonfires, making plaintive noises at being so close to the flames. Thrall had barely dismounted before Varian strode over to confront him, the rage in his eyes smouldering all the brighter in the light of the fires.

"Here is the harvest you've wrought, Thrall," the human said, waving at the lines of bodies. "Reinforcements sent from Hyjal, where they were needed, to defend their homeland from unprovoked aggression! The Horde fell upon them with magnataurs, proto drakes, and half again their number of bloodthirsty warriors, striking them as they rested by day. Eight thousand night elves dead, and twenty-five hundred Horde attackers."

Thrall caught sight of one of the orc bodies being tossed into the flames. It was more decomposed than he'd expected. "How long has it been since the battle?" he asked.

The human's eyes lit further in rage. "You noticed, did you? Nearly nine days, now. The Horde squatted over the battlefield like vultures, despoiling and desecrating the bodies of my friends and allies. They fed many to the magnataurs and proto drakes. They didn't even bury their own dead, just left them as they lay."

Thrall nodded. It was tradition to leave a body where it had fallen on the battlefield, clutching the weapon that had killed it. But to treat the bodies of the dead like carrion was an insult orcs didn't usually result to. Not even with their worgs.

Wrynn continued grimly. "They'd be here still, working further insult, but High Priestess Tyrande's army from Darkshore arrived in time to threaten their siege of Astranaar and they were forced to hurry to its shores. Only now have we had access to the bodies to give them the proper burials they deserve." The king turned and started walking down the rows of night elf dead. Many were naked, as if even their clothes had been looted off their bodies. "Walk with me, Thrall," he said curtly. "Look at each body closely, and see what you've done."

Thrall walked with him. And he saw. And much as it shamed him to admit it, it was not without some relief that his people had so crushingly defeated their enemies. But that relief was a bitter counterpoint to his dreams of peace which had died anew with every mortal blow struck on this field.

Whatever future lay in store for his people now, it would be drenched in blood.

At the far end of the field a group of night elves had gathered. Thrall recognized druids and priestesses among that number, and wasn't surprised to see that in their midst walked Tyrande Whisperwind and Malfurion Stormrage, moving among the bodies with faces torn with grief and dragging their attendants along in their wake.

The night elves grew dangerous with anger when they caught sight of Thrall, and he felt magical energies swirling in the air. Many raised weapons, and he wondered if his final fate was to be torn apart in retribution on the site of the slaughter his people had wrought. The Doomhammer had been taken from him, as well as his armor, and whatever aid he could call from the elements would be quickly countered by Malfurion and Whisperwind together.

But Malfurion and his mate simply continued on alone, leaving their attendants and the workers still arranging bodies behind as they moved to confront Thrall and Wrynn.

"Well, King Wrynn?" Malfurion demanded. "Has coming anew to this scene of slaughter not changed your mind?"

The human shook his head grimly. "Of all orcs, Thrall is perhaps the only one still capable of doing good for Azeroth. The peril to our world is too great not to give him the opportunity."

Thrall was surprised to realize that it was the human who hated orcs with a passion who was speaking for him, while Malfurion, who he'd once considered a true friend, called for his death.

"I'm tempted to ignore your request and leave his fate to the judgment of my people, Majesty," Tyrande said. She shimmered in the light of the dominant moon, drawing power from her goddess. "I understand your reasoning, but unlike my husband I have stood too long against their insult, watching my people suffer. He's publicly humiliated me by hushing me like an outspoken child, only to see my warnings all vindicated!"

Rather than answering Varian turned expectantly to Thrall, one eyebrow raised. With a sinking heart he realized the human had spoken for him as far as we was going to.

He stepped forward, bowing low in the human fashion. "If you desire to see me punished for the crimes of my people I can hardly blame you, High Priestess," he said heavily. "I'm no longer as confident of my ability to guide my people as I once was. But there is still much I can do for the peace."

"It could be argued you've done enough for the peace," Tyrande replied coldly. It was not a compliment. "For Varian's sake I'll hear you, if for no other reason than to assure his promised aid."

Varian's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing to the insult.

Thrall thought carefully, aware of the impatience of his fellow leaders. Or his captors. "I still bear strong influence with the other Horde faction leaders. Baine and Vol'jin particularly, but Lor'themar Theron as well. And it could be argued that I'm the only one the Banshee Queen would actually listen to."

"You forfeited all authority over them when you made that mad dog Warchief in your stead," Malfurion argued.

"Authority, yes. But not influence. Ties of respect are not broken so easily. If I could secure their voices along with my own, perhaps together we could turn Garrosh from this course and toward a battle more beneficial to everyone. Such as in the Twilight Highlands."

Tyrande laughed. "Why shouldn't we just slaughter your orcs and their vassals and have done with their treachery once and for all?"

Thrall hesitated. Now was not the time to give insult. But the truth would be taken as the truth was taken. "If you could, I don't think I would be here now," he said quietly.

Malfurion sighed. "There is something to that, Tyrande. Our people teeter on the brink, and only a single push keeps us from losing our homeland and wandering exiles as our kindred the blood elves once did. The Twilight cult stands poised to the northeast, ready to give that push. Beyond that it's a miracle the Earthen Ring has kept the World Pillar intact as it is. They need Thrall."

"We teeter on the brink only because we face the near combined might of the Horde while the remainder of the Alliance dallies with undead," Tyrande said harshly. "And in aiding us the Alliance will follow us along that precarious path. But there is no hope, is there? Peace cannot come from our side when the orcs demand war. And do you honestly think Thrall will be able to change their minds?"

"I can't change Garrosh's mind," Thrall agreed evenly. "Or the minds of my people. I've made regrettable mistakes, and lost much of the respect I'd earned in previous times. But if I can't force Garrosh to a path, I can still guide him."

"And how will you do that?" Varian asked. His eyes still burned with their rage, but he sounded calm. And he was listening.

Thrall smiled grimly. "Garrosh is not subtle. The tools to direct his ire need not be either. I'll simply offer him an insult to his honor he must respond to. One that will make him forget the night elves long enough for us to deal with Deathwing's threats."

The Alliance leaders exchanged glances. "We demand your word, Thrall," Varian finally said. "No matter what happens, no matter what the threat to your people, if we let you go your only involvement in this will be to bring peace. If peace cannot be managed you will turn your back on your warmongering people and leave them to it. Never again will you claim neutrality while aiding their aggression."

Thrall frowned. "You'd ask such an oath of me? To abandon my own people in their time of greatest need?"

"I demand it," Varian said. "Of we put your head on the chopping block right now. You know we'll show mercy to your people as we have in the past, but we demand justice as well. Bring the peace, convince them to atone for their actions here, or accept honorable exile. You have no other option."

Thrall looked between the three, heart heavy. His people already called him a pet of the humans. This oath would all but cement it in truth.

And yet what choice did he have? Garrosh threatened to plunge his people off a cliff to sharp rocks below, taking the world with them. He _must_ stop this madness, somehow find a way to save his people once more. Not only from their enemies but from themselves. If he could not then exile was no more than he deserved.

"I swear," he growled. "On my honor and the honor of my ancestors, I swear it."

"Specifically, orc," Tyrande said.

Thrall flushed at her words. How many insults had he suffered in the name of peace? How many times had he allowed his honor to be questioned, his integrity called into doubt, for the good of these people as well as his own? How many times would he be forced to suffer such words in the future.

As many times as needed. "I swear I will bring peace, or the Horde will receive no further aid from me in their aggression," he said. "I will seek true neutrality, as I should have all along, and devote myself entirely to the Earthen Ring."

The three leaders exchanged looks, then slowly, each in turn, nodded. "We accept your oath, Thrall," Malfurion said. Tyrande turned away as if in anger.

Varian turned and motioned to the edge of the field. Thrall turned to see two humans stepping aside to clear the path for a female Mag'har, and his breath caught.

Aggralan. His former teacher and mate, here? For a moment rage surged through him at the thought that they'd taken her captive as well, and he whirled to face Varian. "What is this?" he demanded.

The King of Stormwind scowled at him. "I wasn't the only one who spoke for you, Thrall. She came of her own will, accepting whatever she must in order to plead your case before us."

"And you took her prisoner?"

"No. She was free to leave at any time, and indeed needed at the Maelstrom as much as you yourself. But here she is."

Thrall turned to see her running towards him. He ran as well, although they both stopped several feet apart. "You're unhurt?" he growled.

"And you, Go'el?" she demanded.

Thrall glanced back at the Alliance leaders. "We have work to do."

She nodded. "I was told of your oath, though they forced no such promise from me. Worry not, my mate. If we fail there's always Draenor. My people will welcome us."

That angered him. Was he the only one who understood the stakes? Even if they survived all else, there was the Burning Legion looming over this small world. And they had Velen's vision concerning that. "We will not fail," he growled. "We cannot."

Nodding, his mate fell in beside him and they made their way off the field of carnage. After a few dozen steps Varian came to walk at his side. The human looked almost surprised at the reunion Thrall and his mate had shared.

Whatever anyone said, Thrall was still an orc. Aggra of all people refused to let him forget it.

"I'll need to find Garrosh immediately," he told the human. "Do I have your leave to seek him out at Astranaar?"

The human looked oddly amused. "You have my leave," he said. "But you won't find him there."

"Where, then?" Thrall demanded. He couldn't imagine the son of Hellscream anywhere but on the field of battle.

The human's smile widened, became almost feral. "Somewhere east of here, running as fast as his legs can take him."

.

_The screams called him on as he pulled his way up towards Aldor Rise. Beckoning, enticing, singing with the bloodlust inside him, the demon blood clouding his mind and body and demanding he continue._

_ Did he fight it, or embrace it? Was the thought of what was to come exciting, or appalling? How much of his brutality was Mannoroth's blood, and how much was his own nature?_

_ The answers were important, for they hinted at not only a vague, forgotten past but also to a dark, terrifying future. He must find honor, or his people would find whatever they could and damn themselves._

_ But for now he merely climbed, shaking with anticipation, hands slippery with the blood of the draenei he'd killed. He wanted-_

Pounding at the door jolted Drazgh awake, and he lurched out of bed to see the dark form of his daughter crouched atop her bed, Render held cautiously in front of her. She weaved slightly, still feeling the effects of the alcohol she'd consumed this night, but the gleam in her eyes spoke of bloodshed if necessary.

Drazgh didn't bother with Terror, simply walking to the door. An enemy would've either burst in or snuck in, they wouldn't be sitting there pounding.

Ursug stood outside, and out in Orgrimmar the noise had changed. Not the quiet of a sleeping city, but a sort of hushed murmur. Orcs were poking their heads out of houses all around him.

"What?" he growled.

His blood guard hesitated. "I don't know. A disturbance at the gate, messengers calling excitedly as they rush towards Grommash Hold."

Drazgh growled to himself and hurried back inside to pull a tunic over his shoulders. He belted his knife around his waist and stomped into his boots, not bothering to lace them.

"Father?" Deneth asked.

"Sleep, daughter," he growled. "This will be settled in areas where you're not welcome."

Her eyes tightened with anger, but Drazgh ignored her. He didn't have time to worry about the prickly pride of youth. With Ursug following he hurriedly made his way down the wide path from his overlook down into the city below. The streets were oddly crowded with orcs, all as confused as he was. All they knew was that something was happening.

Grommash Hold was surprisingly full of people as well. Higher ranking orcish officers and taskmasters, dignitaries from vassal races, and of course Blitwhistle sitting on his comfortable padded stool, leaning over a matching table. The goblin looked as if he hadn't moved this entire time.

Before Drazgh could move over and probe the overseer for information a commotion at the entrance drew his gaze. Powerful orcs there were scattering even though no one was pushing them aside. Drazgh could have guessed the reason even before a hulking figure stalked into the room, haft of his heavy axe gripped tight in both hands as if he meant to use it at the slightest excuse. The sight confirmed why the others had been so eager to make way.

Garrosh Hellscream had murder in his eyes.


	7. Machinations

Chapter Six

Machinations

Drazgh stared at the Warchief in stunned disbelief. What was Hellscream doing back from Ashenvale, and wearing such a look of murder on his brown Mag'har features? That look didn't speak of victory, nor did the looks of those who followed him into the room.

But if defeat, how had he not heard of it in all his time returning to Orgrimmar, or his time here?

Normally Drazgh would've approached the Warchief directly for answers to his questions, but not even fools drew the attention of such ire. Instead he stood watching as Hellscream disappeared deeper into Grommash Hold, to his own chambers.

Then he stepped forward to intercept Malkorok as the towering Blackrock exile moved to follow his master. "What has happened?" he demanded.

Malkorok made no response other than to shove Drazgh aside and continue, so violently that in most circumstances Drazgh would've had no choice but to see it as a challenge and retaliate.

Instead he let the hulking orc disappear after Hellscream, then moved over to where the others of the Warchief's honor guard stood in the entryway, looking like whipped curs. One of them was the son of the Taurajo chieftain, Bravik Windhoof. Nephew to the druid Drazgh had grown to depend upon during the Ashenvale raid. A powerful young bull, from what his uncle had said, although he'd seen nothing of the tauren's abilities. Orcs in general, and Hellscream in particular, held a great deal of contempt for magic, and most magic users only displayed their power when necessary while in Orgrimmar.

"What has happened?" he asked again.

Bravik gave him a solemn look, eyes tight with worry and a surprisingly deep weariness for one so young. "The night elves sent to defend Hyjal returned in haste. By the speed of their arrival they must have had the aid of portals in traveling."

Drazgh cursed. "The Kirin Tor has sided with the Alliance?"

The tauren shrugged. "Hellscream questioned representatives of the Sunreavers on the matter. By their word providing portals to the Alliance army was solely a response to this aggression into Ashenvale. They hold to their neutrality."

Drazgh snorted in disbelief at that. How could you claim to be neutral when you aided one side against the other? The humans and elf mages had backwards notions of honor. But he waved that consideration aside. "Met us how, where? Was the defeat so complete that they drove our own army back to Orgrimmar so quickly? That shouldn't be possible, unless you're hiding dead weariness from constant retreat."

Bravik shook his head. "No, the army remains. The Alliance force met us northeast of Astranaar, and in truth we struck them first. Their numbers were smaller, smaller by several thousand warriors, and their physical strength was the lesser. But they came with the bulk of their night elf druids and a large contingent of human mages and shadowcasters, as well as gnomish and dwarvish engineering constructs. The fighting was brutal for a time, though their casualties were far higher than ours. It was a glorious victory, one that made it possible for us to besiege Astranaar."

"Then why has the Warchief returned?" Drazgh demanded.

The druid looked away. "During the thickest of the fighting Garrosh led his honor guard and most of his Northrend beasts against the Alliance center, where the banners of Stormwind and the Cenarion Circle stood. We managed to punch through, but before we could hack down the standards and claim the area Garrosh was personally attacked by the human king, Wrynn, in the form of a giant wolf."

Drazgh hissed his breath in. "This story can't have a happy ending, if he's here." Victory or death. Weren't those the words Hellscream was so eager to force on every new recruit into the Horde?

"No, it doesn't. The two fought one on one, single combat. It shouldn't have been recognized as a duel, but Wrynn had punched through into the midst of our forces and Garrosh ordered all of our warriors back so he could fight the human alone. So what else could it have been?"

"He lost?"

Bravik's heavy jaw tightened, wide nose wrinkling in disapproval. "He fled with severe injuries. He tries to claim it was prudence, that there was no challenge and therefore no duel, so his actions weren't dishonorable. But before Wrynn managed to flee he called after the Warchief, warning Garrosh that if he remained in Ashenvale Wrynn would hunt him down and kill him."

Drazgh stiffened in renewed shock. If judged as a duel, and even Varian Wrynn himself had seen it as such, those words were not merely a threat, but a condition of Hellscream's defeat. Having already dishonored himself by fleeing from an enemy, had Hellscream remained in Ashenvale and broken the conditions of his loss he would've lost what little honor remained in the situation, utterly disgracing himself in the eyes of his orcs. He'd had no choice but to return to Orgrimmar.

Had the human known what those words would mean?

Of course he did. Varian Wrynn was Lo'Gosh, the Ghost Wolf, who'd fought as a slave in various orcish arenas for years. Drazgh himself had witnessed more than one arena fight by the legendary human, although of course none of them had known who Lo'Gosh really was at that time. With that sort of experience few would know better the intricacies of duels and honorable combat than the human king, since a dishonorable win in the arena could earn you the most agonizing death imaginable from a displeased master. And most of the displeased spectators would be there to witness it, if not actively taking part.

So Hellscream had lost a duel and been forced to flee in disgrace. Even if the Horde army had the Alliance forces besieged in Astranaar, and still outnumbered them, their position was tenuous. Watching their Warchief lose to a weaker human in single combat was about as demoralizing a thing as Drazgh could imagine. In Hellscream's absence they'd need to bolster the army immediately, perhaps double its size, if they were to continue the momentum of this war.

More personally, however, Drazgh was in a very precarious position. Hellscream had specifically sent him out of Ashenvale so the Warchief could steal all the glory of the major victories, leaving Drazgh to the piddling esteem of a few minor skirmishes with surprised defenders. Only the Warchief had lost, had been forced to flee in disgrace, and so instead of stealing all the glory he'd reaped double the humiliation.

Leaving Drazgh with the lion's share of the prestige in Ashenvale, the only proud memories the Horde forces could lay claim to.

He would have to lay low for a while, simple as that. If he didn't Hellscream would either dismiss him from his post as advisor and strip his rank away from him, banish him to some hinterlands post where he could never outshine his Warchief again, or outright kill him. And not in an honorable duel, either: Hellscream had already nearly lost two duels against Horde leaders, and both had ended in near disgrace for the Mag'har. Then he _had_ lost a duel to an Alliance leader, humiliating himself. He wouldn't risk further humiliation in a duel, even if he won.

No, Drazgh would probably find that rabid Blackrock cur waiting for him in some alley on the way home to slit his throat.

Any of those retaliations against Drazgh for merely being successful in carrying out his Warchief's command would only further serve to dishonor Hellscream. Unfortunately Drazgh had no doubt that the Mag'har was proud and petty enough to do any of them. Proud, petty people could be amazingly stupid in their vindictiveness.

Laying low wouldn't work. Not with Hellscream. He'd either have to shame himself by fleeing, or shame himself in another way to put himself below Hellscream once more. He'd sooner die than dishonor himself deliberately so that left only the one option.

He gave a respectful nod to the young tauren and the other members of Garrosh's honor guard. "Strength and honor," he said in farewell, turning for the door. He was nearly there when a voice addressed him from behind.

"Going somewhere, General?"

Drazgh cursed and whirled to find the goblin overseer, Blitwhistle, standing almost at his feet. "Home," he said. It was an effort not to respond angrily, and he wondered why he even bothered to be diplomatic if he was going to be gone from this place soon.

Blitwhistle regarded him soberly, clever eyes seeming to see too much. "Really? Your posture suggests otherwise. You look like an orc who's considering running away. I imagine our Warchief looked much the same when he fled Wrynn."

In a heartbeat Drazgh had the overseer by the collar, lifting him up to where they could be eye to eye with the goblin's sharp nose almost touching his. "What do you know of orcish posture, rat?" he growled. "What do you know of orcs at all, if you're foolish enough to insult me like this?"

Blitwhistle's expression hadn't noticeably changed. He certainly didn't look frightened. When he spoke his words were for Drazgh's ears alone, ignoring the curious onlookers. "Foolish, General? What else would you be doing but fleeing, if you no longer cared enough to be polite to me? And perhaps it's wise, since Hellscream sent you from Ashenvale in victory, denying you greater victories to come, only to humiliate himself and his other generals in battle. As it stands you're the only orc who came out of this campaign with honor, and Hellscream isn't likely to forget it. Why not run?"

Drazgh abruptly dropped the little creature, hoping he'd embarrass himself by landing badly. But Blitwhistle's knees barely bent as he touched the ground and straightened to his usual, sober height. "Why not?" he agreed, but quieter. There were others around, after all.

"I'll tell you why, General. For the sake of the Horde. Would you put your own life, or your vaunted honor, above the future of your people?"

How much did Blitwhistle weigh? Forty, fifty pounds? About the size of a medium sized dog. Drazgh could easily punt such a light weight all the way across the room with enough force to crush him into the wall. "What benefit do I bring here?" he demanded.

"Courage, wisdom, and cunning, for starters." The goblin settled back against the low barrier that separated the hallway from the Warchief's chambers. "A different perspective on honor than Hellscream, certainly, and in many ways more understanding of orcish temperament and traditions than any who remain as advisors to the Warchief."

Drazgh didn't like flattery, and this only angered him more. "And how would I put such fine traits to use if Hellscream sees me as a threat?"

Blitwhistle shrugged. "Didn't I just compliment you on your intelligence? If you wanted to stay you could find away to turn away Hellscream's wrath. The question is whether you can see how much your people need you. The campaign in Ashenvale will certainly fall apart unless cool heads prevail in the planning of future days, and Hellscream is about as likely to listen to me as, well, he listened to Thrall."

With a final low growl Drazgh strode past the goblin and out into the streets of Orgrimmar. But he was troubled, and he was no longer certain what course of action he would take when he reached his home.

As arrogant as he felt thinking the thought, the truth was that Blitwhistle may be right. Many of the finest orcs remained in Ashenvale, leading the campaign there. There was no one in Orgrimmar to temper Hellscream's impetuousness with sound advice, and there was no telling what kind of mischief the Warchief could dream up now that he was banned from Ashenvale and glorious combat. Also coincidentally the front lines was the place where he could do the least amount of damage to the Horde.

Perhaps it was true that the Horde needed Drazgh, in his place advising the Warchief and fighting for the victory of his people.

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. Yes, there was a way he could keep his position. All it required was that he bring a deep enough shame on himself that Hellscream would no longer see him as a threat.

Military defeat being out of the question, and losing a duel running the risk of making Hellscream think he was being mocked, that left only one obvious choice.

A very, very unpleasant one.

.

As was often the case, even this late in the night Garona Halforcen sat alone in the darkest corner of the Boar's Bristle, drinking deeply from a mug. Several more were scattered around her, and the puddles around many suggested they'd been refilled more than once.

She was a strange enigma to the orcish people. One most left alone, out of distaste or fear. On the one hand many of her actions on Azeroth were considered highly dishonorable in the eyes of most Horde races, the assassination of Llane Wrynn, King of the Nation of Azeroth during the First War, among the blackest. To add to that her status as a halfbreed should've put her below the level of a slave by itself, and combined with her villainous past and dalliances with a human should've had her one of the most despised creatures known to orcs.

At the same time she was too dangerous to be despised. Her deadly skills with her weapons, her agility and subtlety in combat and the dirty tricks she used, combined to make her one of the more feared orcs in Orgrimmar. And she _was_ considered an orc, her draenic ancestry aside. In any case she favored her orcish side, free of the telltale hooves, horns, or tail of an offworlder. The only real hints of that heritage were a dusky, purplish tinge to the green of her skin, and more slender, graceful limbs.

Drazgh the Terror pushed into the tavern, glancing to the side where Ursug had gathered some of the Dek'Terror to drink. His blood guard didn't know why their general had been willing to pay for a cask of ale this night, and his expression showed he didn't like it.

He was about to like it a lot less.

Ignoring the calls of his orcs Drazgh wove his way among the split log benches and tables to where the female hunched. She'd lifted bleary, hostile eyes to meet his as he approached.

"Well, General?" she growled. "You've picked a bad time to-"

Drazgh picked up one of the empty mugs and slammed it into her face, the blow solid enough to shatter the thick pottery and send her sprawling out of her seat.

All conversation, all activity, in the tavern ceased as everyone turned to gape at him. Dead silence settled as they waited for the half-draenei assassin to tear apart the fool who'd just picked a fight with her.

Perhaps they thought they couldn't be any more surprised by this turn of events. They found they were wrong when Drazgh leapt atop the female, desperately shoving aside the knife that flicked at his ribs, and before the drunken half-draenei could recover any more he began ripping at her clothes.

Behind him Ursug cursed quietly in disbelief, but in the dead silence it rang through the tavern. The obscenity shattered the frozen scene, and soon a few others were muttering in shock and outrage, as well as interest and excitement.

Drazgh wasn't insane enough to fight Garona Halforcen, he was insane enough to actually try to _mate_ with her. And he was dishonoring himself by doing it while she was drunk and he was dead sober.

In all probability soon to be just dead.

As she struggled beneath him, cursing through gritted teeth, Drazgh did his best to minimize her chances of resisting. In her drunken state her motions were somewhat wild, but even so she moved with surprising speed and purpose to fight him off. He hated to shame a female like this, but his actions humiliated himself equally and he needed word of this to spread far and fast.

He had to admit, this idea had come to him from Deneth. Hearing his daughter's tale of the fool shaming himself by trying to get her drunk enough to overpower her had shown him a perfect opportunity. As a high-profile female to humiliate himself by failing to mate with Garona was about the best he could've asked for, and it was well known she drank here regularly.

Now, assuming he survived this, his reputation would drop lower than Hellscream's. But it wouldn't hurt him nearly as much as other forms of humiliation . . . even in defeat, trying to mate with a legend drew its own sort of admiration.

As he was distracted gauging the mood of the tavern Garona somehow managed to simultaneously slam a heavy fist into the side of his head and an even heavier knee into his crotch. Drazgh sucked in a strangled breath, then bellowed and redoubled his efforts. Thankfully the half-draenei had tossed aside her weapon, formally recognizing this as a mating attempt in spite of his dishonor. He would've preferred it if she'd simply gone limp and verbally expressed her contempt, since he could've walked away with fewer injuries.

Was it possible she was _interested_ in mating? Drazgh would admit the idea was somewhat exciting, even if it dredged up all the guilt of past memories, and even if he could deal with the shame of mating with such a one as Garona Halforcen. He'd lost much of his interest in mating when his dreams began tormenting him, and almost all the rest after Her'gra's passing two decades ago. Still, it _had_ been nearly two decades.

A tempting possibility, but as foolish as it was unlikely. Garona had made it clear her feelings toward her own people. And the way she herself had been conceived, on that same night that haunted Drazgh's dreams, made her hostile to the orcish form of mating. Which partly explained why she'd mated with a human in their way.

And, more importantly, Drazgh was _trying_ to fail. Succeeding here would be the worst possible outcome.

Beneath him Garona abruptly twisted, quick as a snake, then shoved upwards at a peculiar angle. Drazgh only had a moment to be surprised before he found himself dropping down beside the female, in a more or less equal position of advantage, as she engaged in grappling him fiercely. Blood from her nose and a slash along her cheek from a pottery shard dripped into his ear as her lips brushed it.

"My mother's tales of you, and the tales from mothers of my fellow halfbreeds conceived that night, aside," she hissed, barely loud enough for him to hear, "I'm going to assume this isn't what I think it is. For all your faults you're one of the few orcs I don't consider to be stupid."

Drazgh wasn't sure how to take that, so he kept silent.

That didn't seem to please her. She somehow managed to shove aside one of his arms, even though hers looked barely strong enough to keep him at bay, and before he knew it a solid forearm was shoved against his windpipe, choking him. "Assuming you're not suicidal, and that you care what our audience thinks about you going after a drunk female, I find myself hoping you have a plan. For your sake you should hope so as well."

Risky. He could tell her, and she might go along with it. She had no more reason to like Hellscream than he did. Then again she had even less reason to like him, and it wouldn't take much more than a word from her to undo everything he was trying to accomplish. Assuming she didn't simply kill him.

But she didn't need all the truth, did she? Just the useful parts. "I want you to humiliate me," he managed to gasp out against the pressure. "My memories of Aldor Rise haunt me, and you would say I deserve this."

She hissed, shoving her forearm harder until he couldn't breathe. "The way your fellow warriors boast of your deeds, they must haunt you with pleasure."

Drazgh could say nothing to that. Literally, and even if he'd had breath to speak. He simply shook his head feebly.

For a moment more she held him, and Drazgh could do nothing to stop her. Then she twisted again, somehow getting on top of him, and straddled his hips. Drazgh tried to fight harder, becoming angry with himself. Yes, he'd come here to be humiliated, but he was no whelp to be played with by a mere female, and a half-draenei fifteen years younger than him at that! He could count the number of times he'd failed to subdue a mate on one hand, and still have enough fingers left over for an obscene gesture.

With a mocking laugh Garona slapped him a couple times, as if she were initiating mating like a male, putting him into the role of female.

Well, that was certainly humiliating enough.

"Is this all you have, Drazgh the Terror?" she taunted, loud enough for all the room to hear. "If you're so pathetic now you wouldn't have proven a challenge thirty years younger, either. But maybe I should hold you down and ride you like a kodo, the way human females do their males."

Drazgh went still beneath her, feeling his face pale. If she forced that sort of humiliation on him she might as well kill him. And he'd asked her for it!

But to his relief she simply shoved off him, kicking him in his cracked tusk as she stood. For a moment pain blinded him, and when he came back to himself he found her stooping to pick up her discarded weapon. "Don't let me see you again, old one," she snarled over her shoulder.

Then she was pushing through the crowd to the door.

Drazgh pushed to his feet behind her. He'd wanted this sort of humiliation, but it was almost physically painful to bear the gazes of even the random patrons, let alone the shame in the eyes of his orcs.

Forgetting everything he pushed through the crowd as well, toward a different exit. A few orcs pushed him back, taunts on their lips. Most quieted after he shattered the jaw of the first to loose them, but he was too shamed for his attempts at answering their contempt to be more than halfhearted. Soon enough he was out in the dark, fleeing for his home.

Abruptly Ursug appeared, striding along beside him. Drazgh could've done without his blood guard's presence at the moment. "General. Shall I have our orcs who were there threaten the rest of the tavern patrons into silence?"

Drazgh whirled to glare at his officer, surprised at this show of loyalty but even more annoyed. "And bring further dishonor by trying to hide my shame?" _Like Hellscream?_ "No, my Blood Guard. Let word of this spread as it will. Even among my orcs."

Ursug gave him an odd look, almost suspicious. Drazgh knew the veteran was no fool, lack of education aside. You didn't get to be such a high rank by mere savagery and skill. But the blood guard merely nodded and turned back towards the tavern, leaving Drazgh to walk on alone.

By morning everyone in Orgrimmar would know his shame.

.

Aggra paced back and forth, brow furrowed with worry. She had always been impatient, his mate and former mentor, and with him most of all. Nothing in their shared history had changed that.

"What are we doing here in the middle of nowhere, Go'el?" she finally snapped, turning to him. "The Maelstrom swirls, the World Pillar teeters, and we perch here among the cliffs of Durotar like stones doing nothing when so much rests on our shoulders!"

Thrall glanced to their escorts. Two Cenarion Circle druids, a tauren and a night elf, sent by Malfurion to watch over him, and one representative from the Earthen Ring, also a tauren. Ostensibly his mate was the second representative from that organization. The fact that Thrall, who had helped found the Earthen Ring, wasn't counted in the tally was an insult, and one that stung deeply.

"The more delicate the task," he replied evenly, "the more critical the timing. If things happen too soon one after the other Garrosh will surely be suspicious. And for our purposes location is also important, for the Warchief will have shamans of his own."

"Timing for what?" she demanded. "How will we know when it's time?"

Thrall abruptly stood, moving out to the circle of stones he'd laid upon their arrival that morning. "For our purposes the first step begins whenever I judge right. That time is now."

As the others watched he moved to stand in the center of the circle, raising his voice to call to the elements.

Earth, specifically. He had always been more comfortable with storm: water, air, and fire mixed in elemental fury to create lightning and tempest. Aggra had chided him on his weakness with this particular element, and he had felt that weakness deeply when hearing of the danger Azeroth faced with the Plane of Earth.

Well, he had stepped down from his position as Warchief to pursue a deeper, unobstructed communion with the elements. It was time to see if he'd been successful.

"What do you do, Go'el?" his mate asked, suddenly alarmed. Earth was responding strongly to his call, and Thrall was sending that call far and wide, delving Azeroth to its core and even disrupting the Plane of Earth. "The World Pillar teeters, now is not the time to be playing with Earth so recklessly!"

Thrall smiled in grim determination, not ceasing his communion with the Earth spirits. "The Cataclysm is months in the past," he said quietly. "Garrosh's memory is far too short to remember the threat it poses to Azeroth, if he ever acknowledged it in the first place. He must be reminded."

The rocks in his circle began shaking, the earth beneath his feet trembling slightly. The spirits surged, sensing his need, bolstered by his mood. All the pent-up emotion of months of work frustrated, patience betrayed, and dreams shattered. Thrall pushed his feeling into the Earth, seeking to become one with it even as he sought to control the tempest of emotions within him. Communion with the elements always released his deepest feelings, and it required true effort to keep them in check. The shaking of the earth increased, the rocks rattling and skittering like frightened insects, and his Earthen Ring escort muttered nervously, half reaching for the elements as if to try to forestall Thrall's efforts.

He didn't actually try, however. He had to know he'd fail.

Finally Thrall reached oneness with the Earth and oneness within himself, reining his emotions in to perfect balance. There was no distinction between the two events. Around him the earth grew still, more quiet even than before he'd begun, as if all creation poised hushed, awaiting his command.

Thrall closed his eyes slowly, took a deep breath, then opened them, staring north. "Break," he whispered.

And the ground broke.

.

Drazgh stumbled, aware of distant screams, as the earth beneath his feet lurched.

Or perhaps that was too mild a term. More like it punched up at him, almost with enough force to snap his knees. He flew several feet into the air, feeling rather than hearing a deep, tortured groan all around him.

Somehow he managed to land without injuring himself, only to be bounced back into the air as the earth quaked once again. The screams of surprise turned to fear and pain, and almost directly below Drazgh the ground split with a sharp _crack_. Only a narrow split, less than an inch wide, but looking down into it he could see it stretched almost a hundred feet deep.

He was bounced up again, harder this time, and as another _crack_ shivered through his bones he watched a nearby building shudder and then collapse in on itself, like sand in an hourglass being pulled through the center pinhole. A wider split bisected the building, and within its depths he caught a molten red glow before the quaking of the earth abruptly slammed the crack closed.

The earthquake seemed to go on forever as Drazgh huddled with his limbs pulled tight, bounced around like a bug in a child's cupped hands as he ran to show his mother his find. And even after the earth stilled he still found himself huddled, tensed waiting for another lurch to come. One did, a short sharp tremor.

Then all was still.

Suddenly irritated at himself Drazgh stood, dusting himself off with a growl. Other orcs around him still huddled, faces pale, and he wondered that he'd ever been so terrified as they looked. With another growl he broke into a trot towards Grommash Hold. It hadn't been his destination, but now it was.

He'd laid low in the two weeks since word of his humiliating display with Garona Halforcen had spread through Orgrimmar, surprisingly fast and with surprising thoroughness. It had been an unpleasant passage of time, and small surprise his daughter had found reasons to avoid their home. When he had seen her she'd looked at him with anger and question in her eyes, and that had shamed him more than the gazes of all his other orcs combined. He'd rarely left his dwelling.

Now, looking at a few collapsed structures and the cracks spiderwebbing across the ground all around him and the cliff walls rising above him, it seemed like a good sign that the time for laying low was finished. He could only hope that enough time had passed that he was safe to seek out Hellscream and resume his duties.

He arrived in the Warchief's chamber at about the time Hellscream burst from his rooms deeper within the hold, roaring in anger. If the quaking earth had frightened the Mag'har he didn't show it, and as usual Malkorok looked impassive as a boulder, save for the hatred burning in his eyes.

Drazgh had hoped to remain unnoticed, but since he'd entered at nearly the same time as the Warchief Hellscream's eyes immediately fell upon him. "Well, old one?" he growled. "I'd heard you crawled into the deepest hole you could find after trying and failing to mate a halfbreed. This earthquake collapse your refuge and send you stumbling out into daylight?"

After a moment considering possible answers, Drazgh decided his best option was probably silence. At least the only action he could hold himself to that wouldn't get him killed.

It seemed the correct one. Hellscream turned away, dismissing him. "Earthfury!" he bellowed. "Shaman, where are you?"

The called-for orc almost immediately stepped forward, away from the cluster of advisors standing amidst the flurry of peons struggling to set the chamber to rights. The orc saluted. "Warchief?"

Rehgar Earthfury was a prominent warrior, a slavemaster of great renown who'd abandoned slaving for a return to shamanism. He'd risen high in Thrall's Horde, and in fact the son of Durotan had selected him to be his right hand at the Theramore peace summit.

Needless to say, all those factors combined had served to ensure that this was the first time Hellscream had called upon him for advice.

"What was that?" the Warchief demanded, indicating the upset furnishings and a crack in the wall. Drazgh wondered if Hellscream was annoyed at all that Grommash Hold was being damaged before its construction had even been completed.

The old orc hesitated, frowning in concentration. "The event wasn't subtle, Warchief," he finally said. "The elements screamed at its occurrence, and continue to roil deep below the surface. The Plane of Earth itself trembles."

"Why? What caused it?"

Another hesitation. "I would have to commune with the elements to find out. But its cause seems obvious enough. Thrall has sent several pleas for aid to be sent to the Maelstrom, where Deathwing's awakening has shattered the World Pillar and threatens to drop the Prime Material Plane into the Plane of Earth. If I had to guess, I'd say this was a manifestation of that peril."

"You would, would you?" Hellscream said with a sneer. "What's to be done about it?"

Earthfury's expressed darkened slightly at the younger Mag'har's tone. "I will commune with the elements and soothe them if I may. If nothing else, I can prevent further damage to Orgrimmar. But perhaps it is time to heed Thrall's warning and send more shamans to the Maelstrom."

"They can't be spared," Hellscream snapped. "Have you forgotten we're in the middle of a war?"

"Our conquest in Ashenvale will be severely hindered by the world's descent into Deepholm," the elder shaman said dryly.

Hellscream's response was to hurl a bracer at the shaman, who dodged it easily. His long years as a gladiator had given reflexes that age hadn't dulled. "Out!" the Warchief snarled. "If all you have for me are prattlings go somewhere useful. The Ashenvale Offensive needs powerful casters more than I need Thrall's lickspittles!"

Earthfury turned and strode from the chamber, showing far more dignity than Drazgh could've managed in that situation. He probably would've simply challenged Hellscream to a duel right then and there, death be damned.

Thrall's influence on the old shaman, no doubt.

As Earthfury left Hellscream hopped up to sprawl on the Warchief's chair, knocked askew by the earth's quaking. "Well?" he demanded. "What were we talking about?"

"The earthquake," one of the other advisors ventured.

The Warchief spat. "Phagh, ground seems calm enough to me. I'm more interested in talking about my fleet. Blitwhistle! What excuses do you have for your delays this time?"

Drazgh hesitated for a moment, considering going after the elder shaman to learn more of the recent turmoil in the elements. It seemed foolish to simply dismiss the event. But he seemed to have found himself back in Hellscream's presence, and the Warchief didn't seem disposed to kill him or dismiss him from his duties.

So he made his way to the advisors and sat in the seat Earthfury had vacated.

.

"That was stupid, Go'el," Aggra growled, picking herself up off the ground. She'd managed to calm the earth directly below her, but not before it had tossed her off her feet. "We're supposed to be mending the Plane of Earth, not stressing it further. You could've destroyed us all!"

"No I couldn't have," Thrall said calmly, turning. The earth had shielded him from its wrath. "The planar weakening is far away, at the Maelstrom, and this event was localized to Orgrimmar and the surrounding area." He walked over and picked up the Doomhammer, slinging it over his shoulder. "Come, we're done here."

"And where are we going now?" she demanded, stalking over to fall into step beside him as they made for their camp.

"Orgrimmar. I've hopefully got Garrosh's attention now. It's time to use it."

"To what end?" Thrall didn't reply, and his mate growled to herself. "You should simply challenge him to mak'gora and be done with it," she muttered. "Undo all the damage you've caused by putting him there in the first place."

Thrall glanced her way, eyes tightening. "Our people would no longer have me, I fear. For better or worse Garrosh is their Warchief now. He has their support, and more importantly their love. I must work with him if I'm to accomplish anything."

"Then we might as well give up now."

He smiled at his mate humorlessly. "Not just yet. Garrosh may not be willing to listen to me, but I know how to work with stubborn, hostile orcs. I've had plenty of practice with you."

She arched an eyebrow at him, not quite amused. "How do you go about it, then?"

He leaned over and swatted her. "By pushing their buttons. Garrosh's aren't terribly hard to find."

.

Hellscream was pacing. That wasn't particularly new. "I don't accept that we can't succeed at besieging them!" he snapped.

Drazgh leaned back on the bench, trying to keep his expression neutral. Since when did it matter to a battle whether its commander accepted reality or not?

And it seemed obvious the Warchief was keen on not accepting reality. A full day had passed since the earth had quaked under his feet, and since Earthfury's departure no one had dared bring the event up again in Hellscream's hearing. For his part Drazgh would've happily traded a score of shamans for some small assurance that they wouldn't all die in a cataclysm to make Deathwing's emergence seem trifling in comparison.

But what did he know? He'd spent the day with Hellscream and Blitwhistle at the goblin's request, inspecting progress towards the completion of Hellscream's fleet. And by all appearances today would've been similarly wasted with bureaucratic mishmash chivvying workers already hard at their tasks had not one of the Ashenvale generals come with news about the siege. His presence in the place of a messenger was surprising, although sadly the news he bore was more or less what Drazgh had been expecting from all he'd been hearing of the Ashenvale Offensive.

Nazgrim didn't look bothered by his Warchief's ire. Perhaps not such a sycophant after all. "It's not a matter of us besieging Astranaar anymore, Warchief," he said patiently. "They're practically besieging us now. The night elves seem content to keep their main armies as they are without resorting to a pitched battle. We dare not attack across the lake thanks to the near certainty of defeat, and the Darkshore army melts into the forest if we try to go after them. Meanwhile our supply lines are being constantly broken by guerilla strikes, to the point where if we wanted to protect our avenues of resupply we'd be drawing so many warriors from the siege that the night elves could break it and slaughter those who remained. Word is the night elf leader Whisperwind herself leads many of these attacks."

"Damn them!" Hellscream snarled. "They fight like cowards!"

"They fight like night elves," Nazgrim replied, still unruffled. "Ashenvale is their land, and they've been fighting there for thousands of years. We showed them at Ash Fields that we can smash them on the field of battle, now they're showing us they can kill us with a thousand cuts in a war of attrition. Our best bet is to either bolster the siege with a large enough force to guarantee victory in a fullscale assault on Astranaar, or back out of Ashenvale until we can plan a more effective invasion. As it stands we're throwing good resources and warriors away to no good purpose."

The Warchief paced some more. "Why can't our assault succeed as it stands?" he demanded. "We outnumber them in Astranaar, right? As you said we've shown we can smash them in the field of battle."

Nazgrim wisely made no reply, obviously aware he'd contradicted his leader often enough. And eventually Hellscream paused in his pacing and shook his head angrily. "Right, right," he muttered. "I'm letting their cowardice goad me into rashness. An open battlefield is a far different thing than storming a fortified position, and they've got a formidable moat in that lake of theirs."

The young general nodded. "I've have more than a little experience with watery combat after my campaign in Vashj'ir, Warchief. That lake bristles with aquatic allies of the night elves, and their walls bristle with expert archers. An assault would be catastrophic unless we had some way of bypassing their defenses."

"Such as a fleet of airships," Drazgh cut in.

Hellscream whipped his head around, grinning fiercely. "Exactly, Elder!" he said. "Yes, my new fleet will destroy Astranaar and solve our resupply problems in one fell swoop. Assuming the goblins stop cheating us and actually do the work we're paying them to do."

Drazgh contemplated reminding the Warchief that they _weren't_ actually paying the goblins at the moment, and in fact Blitwhistle was having the Nether's own curse trying to scrounge up materials with Hellscream continually diverting funds from that project to the Ashenvale Offensive.

It begged to be mentioned, but he felt the goblin would be a better person to deliver that news. Why risk Hellscream's ire when Blitwhistle already faced it? A bit more couldn't hurt him. Or it could possibly kill him, but that's what goblins wanted on the job, right?

Mention of the goblin airships seemed to distract Hellscream from his anger, and before too long he was arguing with his advisors about focusing all efforts on getting a few ships up in the air in time to send the siege some relief. Drazgh took the position that the goblins were already rushed enough, and goblin engineering wasn't something you wanted hurriedly slapped together.

It was an unpopular position in Hellscream's eyes, which meant that most of the others found fault with it as well, but at least Blitwhistle himself was willing to provide logical support for it, and surprisingly Nazgrim as well.

It almost looked like they'd be taking another trip to the manufactory after all, to assess a situation they'd already assessed to make a decision the Warchief had already made, when a disturbance on the other side of the vissing wall drew his attention.

It was an orcish disturbance. That was obvious enough from the bellowed warcries, quickly followed by shouts of rage and snarls of pain. Malkorok moved in front of the Warchief protectively, and from the outer walls of the room Kor'kron hurried towards the two entrances around the vissing wall.

Before they could get there an orc nearly as large as Malkorok strode into the room, clutching a barbaric greatsword in two heavy hands. Weapon and warrior both were sprayed in blood, a testament to what had transpired with the two Kor'kron assigned to guard the outer entry. A testament, as well, to an orc that could slay two such elite warriors so quickly and get inside before the alarm could be raised. Of course neither the brute's presence in the Warchief's chamber or the blood staining him were the true surprises.

His skin was livid red, eyes red as well and burning with bloodlust. A fel orc. Drazgh hadn't seen one of their kind since Outland.

He lurched to his feet, cursing. Terror and his armor both waited in his home, with no place at the heart of Horde leadership. Or so he'd thought. Now he regretted their absence.

The fel orc raised a warning hand to the Kor'kron closing on him. His eyes had fallen on Malkorok and they gleamed with bloodlust. "Do you claim to be Warchief?" he snarled.

Hellscream shoved past his bodyguard, slapping Gorehowl familiarly against one palm. "I lead the Horde," he snarled back. "Respect your oaths to your Warchief and submit, or the axe of Hellscream will force that respect on you!"

The newcomer ripped off his tunic with one hand, revealing the tattoos painted in red and black across his arms and shoulders. No fearsome glyphs or images such as some orcs used, each of these tattoos were simple scarred lines, as if a monstrous beast had clawed this warrior all over his body. Drazgh recognized those lines: each signified an honorable kill for the orc, and he recognized what appeared to have made those markings.

Dragon claws. This orc was of the Dragonmaw Clan, one of the few remaining orcish clans that had almost no representation within the Horde.

Snarls rang out through the chamber as the others recognized the markings. "You," Hellscream growled. "I thought we dealt with your kind in Shadowmoon Valley."

The orc spat blood at Hellscream's feet, the strength of the two warriors he'd slain. "I don't come from our shattered world, false warchief. I come from the east, where the true Horde has arisen under the leadership of our Warchief, Mor'ghor. The only true Warchief of the only true orcs."

Hellscream gave a bellow of rage, deafening in that small room. "Zuluhed the Whacked's lackey?" he demanded in disbelief. "We thought you dogs scattered when Thrall put his head on a spike."

The fel orc sneered. "You insult us? You, who fled the battlefield and now cowers in safety? The Warchief ordered me here long before you humiliated yourself. Now I wonder if he wouldn't be angry with me for offering challenge to such an unworthy foe."

"Your supposed warchief demands mak'gora?" Nazgrim asked incredulously.

The messenger turned to him. "If you could call it by such a lofty title. We left you to your own devices when Thrall slew Zuluhed and proved his strength. But Thrall no longer leads, and Mor'ghor has seen that the time has come to reunite the Horde under one banner. The banner of the Dragonmaw!"

The Warchief stepped forward, motioning everyone back. "Your supposed warchief. He is stronger than you, warrior?"

The fel orc's sneer deepened. "Of course. Only here do weaker orcs rise to take the place of their betters."

With his famed scream once again ringing through the chamber Hellscream charged, Gorehowl earning its name as it sliced the air. The blow struck the fel orc's crude greatsword solidly, knocking him back half a step, and Hellscream bared his tusks. "Prove yourself worthy and maybe I'll give your leader's challenge some consideration!"

The Dragonmaw gave his own bellow and shoved back, one hand on the flat of his blade for extra strength. He seemed surprised when Hellscream held his ground. "Perhaps I'll defeat you now and claim this rabble in the name of Mor'ghor," he snarled back. Then he abruptly twisted, shunting the force of Hellscream's push to the side.

The Warchief stumbled slightly, correcting barely in time to catch that heavy blade on one of his demontusk shoulderguards. The blow bowed him for a moment, then with another cry he straightened and brought Gorehowl up and around, slamming the haft into the fel orc's face.

The chamber was large, but even so it wasn't roomy enough for two orcs wielding such massive weapons. The fel orc stumbled back into the vissing wall, one of the spiked barriers catching his sword when he tried to bring it to bear in a defensive position. Only for a moment, but that moment was all Hellscream needed. The Mag'har fell silent, letting his weapon's shriek through the tense air provide the only noise in the chamber.

It struck with a meaty _thud_, followed in quick succession by three more as the Dragonmaw's knees struck the ground, then his decapitated head, then his body sprawled flat in a position that could no longer be called facedown.

Hellscream turned and raised his weapon above his head, shouting as blood rained down on his face and shoulders. "I'll not taste fel blood!" he snarled. "This strength you see before you is trickery!"

Turning, he flung his weapon aside and strode back to his chair, settling calmly down into it. "Dispose of that," he said with a jerk of his head towards the body. "Spike the head above the hold's entrance." A group of peons hurried forward to undertake the unenviable task, and with a bark Hellscream directed one of them towards his axe. "Clean that while you're at it. And someone bring me a wet rag so I can get this demon filth off me!"

Drazgh returned to his seat on the bench, one of the first to do so. Well, he hadn't expected Hellscream to personally answer a challenge. And that display would do a lot towards silencing talk of his defeat in Ashenvale.

"How will we respond to this Dragonmaw warchief's challenge?" he asked.

Hellscream glanced his way, flushed face darkening further. "In blood," he snapped. "But not yet. We have worthier enemies to face in the night elves. Blitwhistle, tell me of the airships!"

Drazgh sighed and settled back in his seat. The airships, the airships. Could an orc who'd just finished beheading a fel brute be accused of throwing a childish tantrum until he got his toys?

Just as well. This Mor'ghor's insult couldn't be ignored, but they'd already bitten off a bitter fight in Ashenvale. Better to chew it until it could be swallowed before turning eyes to another haunch of pork.

.

Thrall slowed within sight of the gates of Orgrimmar. They'd been rebuilt following the Cataclysm, twice as strong and high. The comforting sight of their strength wasn't what halted him, but the thousands of trolls camped outside its walls.

He smiled in relief: Vol'jin had done as he'd asked.

The troll chieftain had caught news of their coming, and a group of dignitaries waited by the road ahead of the camp, still a good half hour's walk from Orgrimmar.

"Good to see you here, old friend," Thrall said, stepping forward to clasp the troll shadow hunter's hand. That two-fingered grasp felt odd every time, but it was a welcome oddity.

Vol'jin nodded curtly. "Wish I could say it be under betta circumstances, brudda. I wouldn't be here for anyone but ya."

Thrall nodded back and turned to the large, sturdy young tauren at his side. "Baine, sorry to have called you away from your work fortifying Mulgore."

The tauren chieftain's nod was even more curt. Their friendship had been strained after Garrosh killed Cairne Bloodhoof, Baine's father and former chieftain of the tauren tribes. But Baine still owed Thrall a debt for his life, and hopefully bonds of mutual respect still remained. "We need a Warchief who can see reason," he rumbled. "Or if not, we need to make him see reason."

"And so we will." Thrall glanced around. "I see no Forsaken, what of Sylvanas?"

"No response," Vol'jin said, frowning around his impressive tusks. "I wouldn't be lookin' ta help from dat source, brudda."

Thrall felt a bit disappointed. He had the respect of Sylvanas, or at least her fear. But they'd pulled away from the Horde after he'd stepped down, ostensibly to focus on the war against the Alliance in Lordaeron and the surrounding areas. In truth he'd only hoped for her attendance, without truly expecting it. "And Lor'themar is similarly absent?"

A blood elf near the back of the group stepped forward. "The Council asked me to send a carefully worded response," he said in slightly accented Orcish. Among the entire group, his expression was the only one that seemed unburdened by worry or care. In truth he almost appeared amused. "In answer to your request for agents to undertake a difficult mission they've complied, but there will be no official blood elf representation when/if you face off against the Warchief."

Thrall's frown deepened. "And you are?"

The elf smiled and offered his hand, which Thrall reluctantly took. "Nova."

"A member of the Farstriders, Master Nova?"

"Hell no." The smiling blood elf jerked his head back towards a tiny figure Thrall had almost overlooked in the assembly. "You might call me her escort."

The diminutive elf came forward, her childlike appearance heightened by her skipping steps, and Thrall transferred his frown to her. Rather than offering her hand the child darted forward to throw her arms around him in an tight hug, looking up at him with huge, unusually dark eyes.

Her hair was dark as well, a shimmering black curtain that extended down nearly to her knees. On closer inspection Thrall revised his opinion. Although the signs were subtle, she wasn't a blood elf at all but a half-elf, with human heritage. Her ears weren't quite so long, although still pointed, and her face was slightly rounder. But her human heritage had, if anything, only served to make her slighter than most elves, barely four feet tall and whip-thin.

Or perhaps that was because she'd yet to reach her adult size.

Thrall did his best to contain his surprise, as much at her presence at all as at her warm embrace. They'd sent a half-elf child to represent them? "Pardon, my Lady, but the Council of Silvermoon sent _you_?"

"Why do people always ask me that, Hiezal?" she asked of the blood elf behind her, lower lip jutting out in a pout. Unlike her escort her own Orcish was flawless. Without waiting for an answer the girl pulled back and drew a folded note out of her belt pouch. "Here."

Thrall took the fine paper and tore the seal of Silvermoon, perusing the brief message.

"Honorable Warchief Thrall,

Do not be deceived by the appearance of Mistress Anette. She is more capable than she looks, as is her guardian. According to the requirements you set forth she will do admirably.

Our apologies on not being able to answer your request to speak against Warchief Garrosh. We hope this breach between you can be amicably mended, at which point you will have our full support."

It was signed by a dozen members of the council, all names and signatures Thrall trusted as legitimate, although with blood elves you could never be sure of authenticity unless you had them right there in front of you hearing it from their own lips.

"Mistress Anette," he said politely, tucking the note away. "I apologize if I've given offense. Your presence is welcome."

She reached up to pat him, her tiny hand likely aiming for his shoulder but barely reaching his chest. "You couldn't ever offend me, Thrall," she said. With that she skipped away.

With a somewhat perplexed sigh Thrall tore his gaze from the confusing female and began scanning the crowd. Well, he _had_ asked for someone friendly, who the Alliance would feel more kindly disposed towards. The child practically seemed to leave rainbows and butterflies in her wake, and her unabashed affection would catch even the most belligerent human off-guard.

His eyes, however, were searching for another diminutive figure. "What of Gallywix?" he demanded. He trusted the trade prince about as far as he could throw him, but he'd outright saved the goblin's life, and brought the cartel Gallywix led incredible profits by putting the bulk of Horde business dealings in their hands. Surely if anyone understood a debt, it was a goblin.

Vol'jin hesitated. "He be nowhere ta be found, mon. No one in Orgrimmar be seeing him in months, and messengers sent ta his, ah, palace in Azshara be turned away wid apologies dat he don't be home."

Thrall took a breath. "Then we go as we are." Two of the six representative races of the Horde. Hardly the show of solidarity he'd hoped for. "What of news within the city? I heard Hellscream received a challenge from the Dragonmaw."

Baine and Vol'jin gave him knowing looks, although the others took the question at face value. "Judging by the bloody red head hanging over the door, I'd say he did," the tauren answered slowly. "But if you hoped it would turn Hellscream's attention to the Twilight Highlands that doesn't seem to be the case. He broods over the completion of his fleet, and he's already committed them to Ashenvale."

Thrall frowned. "Then let's see if we can't convince him to commit them elsewhere. Mistress Moondancer, it would probably be best if you stayed here." The night elf druid nodded reluctantly, and Thrall left her behind and started for the gates of Orgrimmar, motioning for Baine, Vol'jin, Aggra, and the other Cenarion Circle and Earthen Ring representatives to attend him. The blood elves stayed back, true to their word of not even hinting at support.

"How did ya be expectin' ta convince him?" Vol'jin asked doubtfully, falling into step to his right while Baine walked to his left.

After a brief hesitation to put some distance between them and the group waiting behind Thrall spoke. "Hopefully it shouldn't be too difficult. Garrosh can't fight in Ashenvale, which should dampen his enthusiasm for the war there. He just received a personal insult from someone in an area where he can lead from the front, and wherethe world _needs_ the Horde to be. It's my hope he'll be eager to join a fight he can actually participate in."

.

"A month?" Hellscream roared. "A _month_?"

Blitwhistle wilted slightly, even his calm unhinged by the Warchief's wrath. "The electrolysis coils weren't meant to be run nonstop, Warchief. There's a reason we set a deadline in the first place."

"I'll show you a deadline!" the Mag'har snapped, kicking at the diminutive overseer.

The goblin nimbly dodged the blow, looking offended. "The loss of these coils is a major disaster, Warchief. And they don't grow on trees. We lost the capability for making them properly when Kezan went under, at least any large enough to suit our needs. And I hardly doubt we're going to convince the gnomes to sell any to us at this point." His voice took on a touch of reproach. "I believe I warned you of the vital importance of keeping them functional when you ordered me to step up the production of lifting gas."

Hellscream snarled and kicked at him again, and this time Blitwhistle darted over to a source of cover. "What about getting just a few ships up, you rat?" he demanded. "We have enough gas for that?"

The overseer hesitated. Not far away a group of his workers were watching sympathetically. "We do, Warchief. But, ah, our construction efforts go smoother when work is, ah, compartmentalized to specific tasks to be completed en masse. Rigging a hundred catalytic interferometers to engine nacelles at once happens much faster than doing them one at a time on a ship by ship basis."

"What the hell are you saying, Overseer? Speak Orcish by the stern gaze of my ancestors!"

"What I mean to say, Warchief, is that the work is well beyond half-finished. Perhaps as much as seventy percent. But the way we've been constructing the fleet means that _each ship_ is at that level of completion. The fleet was meant to launch simultaneously, not a few ships churned out here and there. If you'd wanted it done that way you would've had to specify it beforehand in the contract so we could make the neces-"

"I'll wipe my ass with your contract!" Hellscream screamed, whipping Gorehowl free and slamming it into the hull of a half-constructed airship. The light, fragile wood cracked for ten feet in either direction. He turned, eyes flashing. "If you turn all efforts to completing a few ships how long would it take?"

Blitwhistle hesitated, obviously grasping for the quickest date he could logically get away with. "Twenty days." The Warchief looked ready to explode into a rage again and he hastily continued. "Like I said, Warchief, we're mass producing a fleet here. If you wanted custom jobs we would've had to have rigged our equipment for that, but as it is we can do fifty ships almost as quickly as five."

"In twenty days our warriors will be starving and likely slaughtered on the shores of Astranaar's lake!" Hellscream snapped. "I have to either get these hunks of kindling in the air in ten days or call my warriors back _now_!"

Blitwhistle squared narrow shoulders resolutely. "Then I advise you call them back, Warchief. I've done the impossible with what you've given me, but there's impossible and then there's impossible. Your current demands defy the laws of physics."

"And if I have your head for your failure?"

The goblin's eyes gleamed in an odd mixture of fear and hope. "Then the work progresses slower, and it's still impossible. You would also find many of the, ah, other vital operations of the Horde suddenly have no one seeing to them."

The Warchief whirled, bloodshot eyes turning to Drazgh for sympathy. "Damn bureaucratics," he snorted. "They're so tied up in their legalese and covering their own asses that you can never tell if they're telling the truth or making excuses. Give me a good clean fight any day."

Drazgh turned an apologetic glance Blitwhistle's way. "In this case I'd say he's telling the truth. The goblin's proved himself competent in the past."

"That just makes it even worse." Hellscream retrieved his axe and stomped back towards the heart of the city. "As soon as they know you can't do anything without them that's when they really start turning the screws."

Drazgh followed behind along with a few peons and some goblin scribe attendants. He wondered if Blitwhistle would make an appearance in Grommash Hold today. With the goblin practically living there of late his absence would be odd.

"Damn all this," Hellscream muttered, dropping back to walk beside him. "To think just weeks ago we were immersed in glorious combat, and now we're trapped in this city managing troop movements and counting coins!" He looked as if he wanted to hit something else.

Considering the dangerous territory the Warchief was skirting, with Drazgh's dismissal from the Ashenvale Offensive and Hellscream's humiliating retreat, Drazgh hoped what the younger orc hit wasn't him.

"Will you order a withdrawal from Ashenvale, Warchief?" he ventured. "Without the fleet we'd have to risk leaving Orgrimmar itself vulnerable to supply enough troops to have any hope of breaking Astranaar."

Hellscream scowled. "We can't stretch ourselves so far. Not yet. If the goblins can't be fast enough to aid us, we'll have to plan our battles around their delays."

Drazgh was about to reply when they turned the corner from the Drag onto the rise overlooking the Valley of Strength. A hubbub at the gates was drawing onlookers, although the warriors guarding the entrance to the city didn't seem overly dismayed.

"Warchief," he said, motioning.

Hellscream glanced over. "Eh?"

A group was approaching Grommash Hold, less than a dozen orcs, tauren, and trolls. Drazgh squinted, tired eyes struggling to pierce the glare and distance, then cursed.

Baine was easy enough to recognize, that ridiculous silver and gold begemmed dwarven hammer, Fearbreaker, gleaming in the sun the way no weapon should. Ridiculous, but powerful. Even more incredibly, the troll beside him bore the distinctive fiery red hair and fetishes that marked him as Vol'jin. The troll chieftain had gall, showing his face in Orgrimmar after breaking his oaths by threatening his Warchief.

Which meant the orc walking between them, followed closely behind by a Mag'har female, had to be . . .

"Thrall," Garrosh growled. "He's freed himself from the honorless suzh'algez that took him in parlay."


	8. Confrontations

Hey guys,

Posting more cause I have more. And this is where it starts getting fun.

I've been toying with doing a scene of the Mists of Pandaria cinematic, outside of book of course. I'd include it before or after one of these chapters. Let me know if you'd be interested in seeing it or not.

NT

Chapter Seven

Confrontations

Rather than going directly to meet with the former Warchief, and the troll and tauren chieftains, Hellscream hurried to Grommash Hold. There he situated himself on his chair and browbeat his chamber in order for their arrival.

Drazgh followed behind, settling in his own seat at the advisor's bench. Across the room Blitwhistle's stool was empty and forlorn; if the goblin had heard of the former Warchief's arrival he'd chosen not to attend.

Pity. His insight could've been valuable. If nothing else, the little creature would've had the courage to make some snarky comments about Hellscream meeting his peers as if they were petitioners, rather than greeting them at the gate.

A tense silence settled over the room as they waited, but thankfully it didn't take long before the small group appeared around the vissing wall and stepped into the chamber.

Thrall led still, flanked by Baine and Vol'jin, with Aggra and a tauren wearing Cenarion Circle colors behind.

The former Warchief opened his mouth to speak, but before he could Hellscream held up a warning sound and Malkorok growled for silence. "You'll speak no word while you travel in _his_ company," he spat, jerking his head towards Vol'jin.

The former Warchief hesitated, then turned an expectant look on his companion.

Vol'jin reluctantly stepped forward, lips pulled back around his large, curved tusks. "I be speaking in anger last time we met, Warchief. Ya know I never kill a brudda, no matter da reason. I hold ta my oaths, and recognized we both do what we do for da sake of da Horde."

Hellscream didn't seem inclined to accept the apology. "Your warriors were needed in Ashenvale, troll. They still are."

Vol'jin shifted, glancing at Thrall. "If ya be accepting my apology, Warchief, I have nearly five thousand of my best ready ta fight for da Horde outside ya gates, and more training at da Isles."

"And if I don't?" Hellscream demanded.

"Den ya don't." Vol'jin spared another glance for Thrall. "But either way, mon, dose warriors won't be going ta Ashenvale. Not when da Horde faces greater threats."

Hellscream looked ready to reply, then seemed to think better of it. "And you?" he said, turning to Baine. "Your warriors have been the backbone of the Horde army since we came to Kalimdor. Where are your warriors? Why have you broken your oaths?"

The sturdy tauren frowned. "My loyalty to the Warchief has always been unquestioning." He sharpened his tone slightly. "And unquestioned. Five hundred braves march northward across the Southern Barrens even now to answer your call."

"Five hundred?" Hellscream sneered. "While your troll friend waiting to shoot me in the back manages ten times that?"

Baine's eyes narrowed. "The Darkspear Tribe gained many recruits in defeating the resurgent troll empire and retaking their homeland. We, on the other hand, continue to be plagued by the Grimtotem rebellion."

Drazgh tensed slightly, as did a few others including Thrall. The Grimtotem's own chieftain, Magatha, had poisoned the weapon that killed Baine's father. The topic skirted dangerously close to the fact that Garrosh Hellscream had been wielding that weapon in a duel against the tauren, and arguably might have lost without that cowardly edge.

But thankfully Baine simply continued, not pursuing that dangerous topic. "Even more importantly, our lands are within striking distance of Theramore, and we hold that flank for the Horde. My braves are needed where they are."

"Theramore," the Warchief repeated, voice thick with contempt. "The city led by a female, and one who killed her own sire for the sake of peace with us. Do you really see a threat from them?"

"I didn't," Baine said flatly. "Then came Camp Taurajo."

Hellscream snorted and leaned back. "Perhaps you have something there." He abruptly turned to Vol'jin once more. "Yes, your friend reminds me that your position is much strengthened by Horde victories. Remember that debt you owe the Horde."

Before the troll could respond the Warchief stood and strode forward, brushing past Baine to pull Thrall into a crushing hug. The motion seemed formal, almost awkward, but Drazgh was glad Hellscream at least saw the need to address that rift.

Cairne Bloodhoof wasn't the only one who'd dueled Hellscream recently.

"It is good to see you free, brother," Hellscream said, pulling back from the embrace but still grasping Thrall's shoulders. "The Alliance has gone too far this time. You stepped down from your position for their sake, took on the burden of neutrality for their sake, and yet still they take you prisoner. I swear to you this insult will not go unpunished."

Thrall pushed away from the Warchief. "It is no insult, brother," he said quietly, "and I do not blame the Alliance. They took me to answer for the crimes of the Horde in Ashenvale. For your crimes."

Hellscream stepped back, good humor vanishing into dangerous rage. "What is this, Thrall?" he demanded. "Again you show your true loyalties, shamelessly for all the world to see. There was no crime in Ashenvale, only glory and great honor won! To say otherwise is to shame your people!"

Thrall's own good humor vanished, if it had ever been there, and his eyes flashed with anger. "You attacked a nation that had sent their warriors away to protect Alliance and Horde both from the threat of Deathwing the Destroyer. On a large scale it's the equivalent of an assassin stabbing an ally while his back is turned. What's worse, they only abandoned their defenses on my word that they'd be free to confront this threat without Horde hostilities. You made me an oathbreaker."

"Stabbing them in the back, you call it?" Hellscream demanded, whirling to storm back to his chair and throw himself down leaning forward angrily. "Breaking free of our cage, I call it, and slaying our jailors. Same as my father helped you do at the internment camps! Didn't you once tell me it was more important to address injury than insult? To prevent future harm than to address attacks against one's honor? Your precious suzh'algez were strangling our people, trapping us in this wasteland. The campaign in Northrend crushed us financially, darkened our people's future, and what was it for but to aid the humans in disposing of one of their own?"

"It was to save Azeroth."

"Save Azeroth," Hellscream mimicked mockingly. "For the good of Azeroth. Always you cower behind that frail excuse, letting your people suffer. I swore to free them and I am!"

"The Twilight's Hammer cult infiltrated us and nearly destroyed Orgrimmar!" Thrall bellowed. Drazgh gave a start of surprise, and even Baine at Thrall's side leaned away slightly in startlement.

The former Warchief strode forward to stand directly before the Warchief's chair, in the center of the circular room. "Don't you see the danger, Garrosh? The Twilight cult sabotaged the Theramore peace summit just to get the Horde and Alliance fighting each other so they could destroy us all unopposed. And even though through _all_ my effort they failed there, here you are aiding their purpose as if you're one of them, a traitor to your own people!"

Hellscream surged to his feet, clutching Gorehowl with white-knuckled rage. "You dare call me a traitor?"

Baine slammed his hoof into the ground, and in response the entire hold lurched briefly. A stack of papers on Blitwhistle's desk fell over and scattered ten feet across the chamber.

"Calm your tempers, my brothers," he rumbled, although he himself was angrier than Drazgh had ever seen him. "Do you forget this threat goes beyond wars? I felt the ground shake days ago, nearly as badly as it did during the Cataclysm! The threat of Deathwing is supernatural, beyond us all. It will take _all_ our strength to address it."

Hellscream stood for a moment, face still livid, then reluctantly plopped back down in his chair, resting Gorehowl across his knees. "I don't believe you, tauren. I'll even bet that earthquake was Thrall's doing.

Thrall's expression became dangerous. "That earthquake happened because the World Pillar is fragmented and on the verge of collapse. It's because the World Pillar is in that state that the night elves released me to aid my Earthen Ring brethren in fixing it and saving us all from being crushed in the Plane of Earth. I'm only here because Orgrimmar lies between Darkshore and the Maelstrom, and as soon as I finish here I'll be on my way there with all speed.

"Don't let me keep you, then," Hellscream said with mock respect. "You've got the world to save."

"I do!" Thrall bellowed. "Ancestors bones shaking, brother, think! The Horde just attacked night elf lands. They were so angry they imprisoned me in spite of my neutral status. But even though _you_ struck them and thousands of their people perished they were still willing to let me go to do what must be done to save Azeroth.

"But you, brother?At every turn you try to _destroy_ Azeroth and yourself with your heedless actions! Was it so much to simply remain in Orgrimmar until my council with the druids and shamans was completed? Instead you enraged the night elves and forced them to pull strength from Hyjal to face you, and I lost a precious month imprisoned while at the Maelstrom the very world literally balanced at the precipice! Your actions threaten us all!"

Hellscream hesitated, looking around the chamber. Drazgh tore his eyes away from the confrontation between the two to do the same, and saw how many were swayed by the son of Durotan's words. Drazgh was, though only because the Plane of Earth was the matter of shamans, where Thrall actually had room to speak.

"There will always be a threat to the world, Thrall," the Warchief finally growled. "You let those threats blind you to the suffering of your people, and even now you refuse to admit your shame."

The son of Durotan's face darkened. "You speak to me of shame, brother? I stood in council with the Earthen Ring and the Cenarion Circle when news of your invasion arrived. Representatives of all races, gathered to address the real threats of Deathwing and his Twilight cult. Threats far greater than any posed by a few more months or years of having to work a bit harder to scrape a living. We _must_ learn to deal with the Alliance if we're to have any future at all."

Hellscream scoffed. "Suffer for the greater good. Always the excuse you use to ignore the plight of your people. Always the excuse you use to appease the humans. Deal with the Alliance, you say? You've dealt with them long enough. You've traded away the honor and freedom of your people. But no more! _I _am Warchief now. _I _lead our people to the destiny we deserve. You were fit to lead the Horde when it was as weak and pathetic as you, forced to use words to survive against stronger enemies. But now we've survived, now we are the stronger, and it is time for you to step aside and let us take our place in this world!"

Drazgh roared his approval of the words along with the others. However he may have agreed with some of Thrall's words concerning the World Pillar, he was pleased to see the son of Durotan told what needed telling about the fate of the orcs.

"Think on this carefully, brother," Thrall warned, not seeming to show any anger for the insults Hellscream had thrown at him. "No honor matches the honor of a worthy victory. Remember that I bested your own father in battle, when he took the Warsong Clan back down the path of blood corruption. I bested the Warsongs as fel orcs when my own warriors were outnumbered and overmatched in strength."

Thrall looked around the room, eyes settling upon Drazgh and the other Elders for a moment. "You all remember it well. You recognize I speak the truth when I say that there is a time to fight, and a time to put up the blade. When the time to fight comes I will show you war like you have never seen it before. I will fight alongside you, brother, to the end.

"But that time is not now."

Hellscream sneered. "Pretty words, Thrall. But I've yet to see you prove your strength. All your great deeds were in a past I wasn't here to witness. I'm sick of your promises of a war tomorrow. I'll have it today."

"War comes when it will," Thrall said calmly. "But for now push aside your bloodlust and think of victory. You did well in Ashenvale for a time, but only because the night elves fight the Twilight's Hammer cult in Hyjal."

Hellscream sneered. "You think my timing wasn't intentional? The night elves are an ancient and strong people, and it's good tactics to strike while their attention is as divided as ours."

Thrall's eyes narrowed. "Yes. Until Deathwing's forces overwhelm them and we find that enemy on our very doorstep."

The Warchief slapped Gorehowl's haft against his knees. "Let them come! Your pathetic desire for peace with the humans won't turn the Horde away from its glorious purpose any longer?"

Drazgh looked between the two orc leaders, wondering which position he supported. Wondering if he even supported either.

Thrall's eyes narrowed. "How about my desire not to see my greatest friend's son make a complete fool out of himself and send the Horde crashing down in flames?"

Hellscream's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Careful, son of Durotan. I put up with much from you for the respect I bear you. Whether it was your intent or not you still brought the Horde great strength and glory while you led. But I will not tolerate insult from your tongue." His hand tightened on Gorehowl's shaft. "Unless you wish to continue the duel you fled from before, citing the greater good of the Horde."

The human-raised orc took a deep, calming breath, his own blue eyes losing some of their rage. "Think closely on this, Garrosh. To take advantage of an enemy's weakness is smart, but not when doing so would make their weakness your own, and to a far greater extent."

Drazgh nodded slowly, understanding where Thrall was going with this reasoning.

But of course Garrosh Hellscream did not. "Explain," he said curtly, snatching his hand away from his weapon. So, in spite of all his brash words he still bore some respect for the former Warchief. Or perhaps fear.

Thrall leaned down to the map table he stood beside, with a map once again littered with Hellscream's carved figures, and rested a hand over the vague scratchings that designated the Horde's entire knowledge of Hyjal. Few had a chance to visit the heart of the night elves' lands and return to report. "The Alliance is committed everywhere Deathwing's forces attack, holding the threat in check. This includes Hyjal. They pit themselves against our mutual enemy, even as we attack them. But if we continue on and exterminate the night elves the Alliance will no longer have a reason to hold Deathwing's forces in Kalimdor back. They will withdraw, leaving us alone to face the Twilight Cult, the denizens of the Plane of Fire, and possibly the Destroyer himself."

Hellscream opened his mouth, but Thrall continued on relentlessly. "Not only that, but while we fight to hold this enemy at bay the Alliance will swing around and begin attacking _us_. It will become the Horde beset on both sides, not the night elves. And that's a position we don't want to be in."

The bloodlust in Hellscream's eyes receded even more. After a moment he nodded grudgingly. "You make a fair point, old friend. I do not fear the humans, but I would prefer they be the ones weakening themselves fighting multiple enemies. Let the night elves continue to be the buffer between us and the Twilight cult."

Thrall nodded, perhaps relieved. "Unfortunately that may not happen either. Your Ashenvale Offensive enraged the night elves. Particularly feeding their dead to your proto drakes and magnataur."

Hellscream waved that away with contempt.

The son of Durotan opened his mouth as if to argue further, then must've thought better of it. His position in Orgrimmar was tenuous of late. "In any case the night elves aren't fools. Now that you've begun your assault they won't remain where they are and let enemies attack them from both sides. They're considering pulling out of Hyjal, leaving the roots of their precious World Tree to be corrupted. Your actions leave them little choice.

"If they withdraw to Ashenvale not only will they be better prepared to defend against further Horde attacks, but Deathwing's minions will be free to push to our very doorstep. We'll lose the advantage of a fragmented Alliance and will once again be fighting on equal footing, both sides struggling to hold the Twilight Cult at bay while they battle each other."

"And what would you suggest?"

Thrall shrugged. "Reassure them just enough that they keep things as they are. Halt the aggressions in Ashenvale for now, and send a party of warriors to Hyjal to aid the Alliance in battling Deathwing's minions. The night elves wouldn't willingly abandon the World Tree unless they have no other option. Give them the illusion that they can hold, and they will continue to bleed their strength away attempting it."

Hellscream nodded grudgingly. "There's more than a little treachery in your plan. But it should produce good results." He straightened and began pacing once more. "Very well. I'll send a squad of my finest Kor'kron to Hyjal, and withdraw our forces back to the Warsong lumber camp."

The former Warchief nodded. "A worthy plan. But if I could make a few suggestions, Warchief."

Hellscream frowned, but he was obviously pleased to hear Thrall use his title. "I'll hear them."

"As I said, the night elves aren't kindly disposed to orcs at the moment since the orcish nation supplied the bulk of the troops in Ashenvale. I would propose a coalition of Horde warriors representing all the races of the Horde. And not affiliated with the Warchief through such obvious groups as the Kor'kron. It would be wise to send female orc warriors to further mollify the night elves. For the same reason we should probably keep the Forsaken out of it altogether, what with Lady Sylvanas's continuing campaign in the Eastern Kingdoms."

"As for withdrawing our forces in Ashenvale, perhaps instead we should let them be driven out." Hellscream opened his mouth to object, and Drazgh didn't blame him. Allow the enemy to dishonor their warriors by forcing them to retreat? But Trall raised a hand to silence him. "The night elves might be suspicious if we simply leave, and at the same time provide them warriors in Hyjal. They'll fear a trick. But if we slowly withdraw, fighting for every inch, then not only will we continued to bleed their strength but we'll fool them into thinking their position is stronger than it is. An arrogant enemy is an incautious one."

Drazgh briefly wondered if that was a veiled insult against Hellscream. It certainly applied.

The Warchief nodded slowly, rubbing his jaw. "Female orcs to Hyjal. Yes, you may be right. And it will give us an opportunity to insult the Alliance by proving that even those who whelp our young are stronger than them."

"A single female orc," Thrall said. "Best keep the orc presence in this as minimal as possible. Let them see it as a gesture from all the races of the Horde."

Hellscream didn't look pleased, but he nodded. "Very well. I'll search the army for a suitable representative."

At this Drazgh spoke up for the first time. "Warchief. I may have a suitable suggestion for the female who will represent us."

The Warchief looked over, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Yes, Elder. Your offspring, that hellcat who shreds anything that comes near. No male has taken her, then?"

Drazgh smiled. "Not for lack of trying. If you want to show the world that even our females are stronger than any male of another race, she's a worthy choice."

Hellscream nodded. "Your participation in the Ashenvale Offensive impressed me, Elder. And your daughter played no small part in that. Very well. She's earned this honor. As have you."

Drazgh wasn't sure what to think of Hellscream acknowledging his success in light of the Warchief's own failure. A peace offering, had he forgotten, or far less likely had he forgiven?

"Perhaps she's earned it, but is she suitable for it?" Thrall moved over to Drazgh, giving him the proper show of respect. "Will your daughter comport herself well with other races, Elder? Can she control her temper and ignore insult to keep the peace?"

Drazgh thought of Deneth's report of Hellscream's warriors and their actions against the female sentinel. Of Deneth's own intervention and the dishonor she'd nearly been shown. "She is a true orc, son of Durotan. There is none better to represent us to the races of Azeroth."

Thrall nodded, but insulted Drazgh by appearing doubtful. "I will send Aggra to prepare her for this. My mentor will test her mettle."

Drazgh wasn't pleased by that, but he was wise enough to hide it as he glanced over at the female and inclined his head in acknowledgment. Only a Mag'har would so usurp her mate's strength as Aggra had done with Thrall. A representative of the orcs who'd turned their back on their heritage, serving the Earthen Ring, a faction that claimed neutrality and refused to aid the Horde in its conflict. And dishonoring her mate by dictating to him what he must do, in Thrall's case giving up the mantle of Warchief to pursue a deeper understanding with the elements.

He didn't object to the son of Durotan stepping down, but to do so because of the bullying of a female shamed Thrall. No orc with any self respect would accept a role as the inferior of his own mate. You might as well be a slave. And such behavior should have shamed Aggra as greatly as the son of Durotan, if she was not one of those Mag'har who turned their backs on their own heritage.

And this one presumed to judge his daughter. Deneth would shame that Mag'har with her strength. And with any luck would shatter her nose in the bargain.

"She will prove her worth," was all he said to the former Warchief. _But she doesn't need to prove it to you, manheart_.

"I trust she will," Hellscream agreed. "Anything else, Thrall?"

"Yes, unfortunately." The son of Durotan grimaced. "With the Horde's warriors free of the conflict in Ashenvale, it would be wise to turn our attention to another threat. I propose rooting the Twilight's Hammer cult out of other lands."

The Warchief turned an contemptuous glance towards Vol'jin. "What of you, Chieftain? You won't give me trolls for Ashenvale, how about for other actions?"

The troll inclined his head. "I be here ta serve."

"Good!" Hellscream shoved to his feet, stomping down from the dais to prod the map with his finger. "We'll be attacking there."

Drazgh craned his neck to see, although he had his suspicion. A frowning Thrall confirmed them. "The Twilight Highlands? I'd approve of that target, as I've heard reports the Twilight's Hammer has taken Grim Batol and is mustering forces there."

Hellscream spat. "We'll face them if they get in our way, but our target is the Dragonmaw."

The son of Durotan looked surprised. "The Dragonmaw Clan has a presence there? But why would the Horde care?"

"They challenge me," Hellscream snapped. "It's time for the Dragonmaws to finally join the Horde."

Thrall frowned. "This is unwise, brother. We already have enemies enough to threaten us without seeking-"

The Warchief slammed his hand against the map, scattering his figures. "I've heard enough out of you, Thrall!" he snarled. "We need a staging area, and these Dragonmaw orcs are felblooded. The Horde will fight in the Highlands, but first I intend to put Mor'ghor's head on a spike!"

Thrall ducked his head in acquiescence, stepping back. "Perhaps it would be good to bring all orcs back in," he admitted.

Vol'jin stepped forward. "I give ya my trolls to fight dere, Warchief. We have some ships, but not enough for all our troops."

"Save your ships," Hellscream said with a smile. "We'll soon have airships."

Thrall looked surprised, although Baine and Vol'jin merely nodded.

"Fine, then," the Warchief said, rubbing his hands even as he gathered up his figures to begin redistributing on the map. "Chieftains, you may take your place among my advisors. You as well if you wish, Thrall."

Thrall shook his head. "I'm needed at the Maelstrom, Warchief." He saluted. "With your permission."

Hellscream waved. "Go, then," he growled. "Aggra, should you return to Garadar before I have a chance send word of my feats to my mother and the Greatmother."

"They'll hear of your deeds," the Mag'har female replied. The wording left some doubt as to whether or not that would be a good thing. Thrall turned to leave, and she and the other neutral escorts followed.

Drazgh shifted on the bench to make room for the large tauren and the fiery-haired troll, although in the end Baine chose to seat himself on the floor, nearly massive enough that his head was the same height as those sitting on the low bench. Vol'jin settled down beside Drazgh, looking restless.

"General," the troll said with a curt nod.

Drazgh nodded back. "Chieftain. I had not expected to see you again in Orgrimmar."

Vol'jin scowled. "I be here for Thrall, mon. Ya be needin' da trolls if ya wanna be takin' the Twilight Highlands."

Drazgh nodded slowly. He hated to admit that orcs weren't the only race necessary for the Horde's success, but while orcs were among the more numerous of the Horde's factions trolls still greatly outnumbered them, what with all the Zandalari defectors Vol'jin had taken on. The only reason orcs had more warriors to bring to the war was because a larger percentage of their race was fighting.

And even in that the trolls were swift catching up. They were a vicious and savage people, their regeneration giving them an unprecedented edge, and their incredible skill with ancient voodoo magics tipping the scales. The Horde was being stretched thin by Hellscream's war, and even more since the trolls had begun ignoring the call to arms.

But just because they were ignoring Hellscream's summons didn't mean that they weren't preparing for war. Now that Vol'jin was demanding more of his people train as recruits they really did have something to bring to the Twilight Highlands ca-

Drazgh froze, trying to keep his expression neutral as he turned away from the troll chieftain to hide his sudden shock, pretending to watch Hellscream speak of troop movements and airship logistics.

That Dragonmaw orc had insulted Hellscream not long ago, and only that had drawn the Warchief's attention to the Twilight Highlands. But Thrall had to have known about the threat of Deathwing's minions there for weeks if not months, and had been pressing Hellscream to fight the Twilight cult since the Cataclysm and the near destruction of Orgrimmar by infiltrators summoning elementals. Which was why the former Warchief had been so quick to capitalize on the Dragonmaw's insult as a means of ensuring the Horde went into the Highlands.

Except the trolls had only recently moved their troops to Orgrimmar, and Vol'jin himself had said he wasn't going to help in Ashenvale. So what had they been here to do, twiddle their thumbs? The only reason Vol'jin had returned to the bargaining table with Hellscream, as good as by his own admission, was out of loyalty to Thrall. His troops were only available to be used in invading the Twilight Highlands.

How had Vol'jin known an invasion of the Twilight Highlands was imminent? Until the Dragonmaw emissary had entered the picture Hellscream had been staunchly opposed to addressing the threat of Deathwing, determined to use all his forces to battle the Alliance. That had been unlikely to change any time soon.

And yet here Vol'jin was, volunteering a newly arrived troll army to that cause at Thrall's request. Which meant both had to have known what was about to happen.

Or maybe they'd orchestrated it in the first place. Was that orc even Dragonmaw? Or perhaps Thrall had sent an insult to the Dragonmaw Warchief as a means of goading Mor'ghor to this response, playing both Warchiefs into thinking the other had offered insult.

Clever. And subtle even for Thrall. But also one of the most dishonorable actions Drazgh had seen from the former Warchief.

But now he was faced with a difficult decision. Inform Hellscream of Thrall's subterfuge and set the two irrevocably at war, and thus fracture the Horde itself as each's followers took sides, or let this deception continue and see a desirable outcome come to pass.

Honor demanded honesty. The good of his people, of the Horde itself, demanded caution.

In his younger years there wouldn't have even been a question of Drazgh's decision. Honor outweighed all. But these days a dozen voices spoke of a dozen ideas of honor, and no one remembered how the orcs had acted honorably in accordance to the old ways. Since no one could tell him what was honorable Drazgh was forced to look within himself, to his scarred, wartorn perception of right and wrong, to find the correct path.

Is this the sort of decision Thrall was constantly faced with, that led him to such treacherous and deceitful actions? Even were Drazgh willing to begrudge that possibility he still couldn't ever see abandoning his honor far enough to do such things in pursuit of his vision of Orcish destiny.

But perhaps to let it pass unspoken was not so dishonorable that he would balk at it. Perhaps he could stomach giving the troll and former Warchief their victory here. Ancestors knew Hellscream couldn't be trusted to make an intelligent decision on his own, so the choices were either force a decision on him or trick him into one.

Thrall's mess to clean up, there, since Thrall had appointed Hellscream. And perhaps this was the way Thrall had found, by playing Hellscream like a puppet for the good of the Horde.

Faugh, it was an effort not to spit out the foul taste in his mouth. He pushed to his feet and made for the door.

"General?" Hellscream growled, sounding offended.

"Our objective has changed," Drazgh answered with a salute. "I should tell the goblins about the new plans so they can make whatever changes they need to prepare the airships for a long voyage to the Eastern Kingdoms."

The Warchief nodded and turned dismissively back to his toys. Drazgh hurried outside, although he didn't head towards the Drag and the manufactory beyond it. Instead he hurried after Thrall.

Keeping his secret was one thing, but he wasn't about to ignore it.

Thrall paused at his approach, turning back with a questioning look. "General," he said. "I'd hoped for better than to see you leading the charge into Ashenvale. I always trusted your wisdom and ability to look to the future. Can't you see what a future of all-out war with the Alliance will lead to?"

"You chasten me?" Drazgh asked. He turned and pointed back to the fel orc head spiked above the hold's entrance. "What of the orc you sent to his death?"

The way the former Warchief's eyes widened was confirmation of his suspicions, if not admission. "I know nothing of Dragonmaw dealings," he growled warningly.

Drazgh glanced at the others of the group, then lowered his voice. "Your plan, Thrall," he said. "Your father would be ashamed."

The son of Durotan drew himself up threateningly, but Drazgh saw no threat. Thrall was as good as a human, and humans wouldn't duel for honor. "And why is that, Elder Drazgh?"

"If you can't see it for yourself then explaining it would be pointless."

The former Warchief made a dangerous noise, deep in his throat. "The plan I proposed and the results it will bring are two different things. Garrosh is reckless and bloodthirsty, and must be talked around. I presented what must happen to him in a way he'd understand and support. Now Horde champions are going to Hyjal to aid with the true threat there. Ashenvale will be returned to the night elves, buying them time to counter the threat of Ragnaros."

"And what of your advice to withdraw slowly from Ashenvale and let the night elves think they're the ones pushing us?"

Thrall smiled humorlessly. "Garrosh itches for war. He already went off once while I was distracted trying to save Azeroth. A slow, steady withdrawal like this, constantly working to make it seem like night elf victories happening again and again, will take great effort and cunning. It will completely distract Garrosh until the airships are ready, hopefully long enough for me to mend some of the bridges he's destroyed. All of it is for the good of Azeroth."

"And the Horde?"

"And the Horde. When you forget your false honor and realize true and lasting peace is best for everyone, you will understand."

Drazgh spat at Thrall's feet. "You're one to speak of honor, son of Durotan. You set up a fool every bit as dangerous as his father as our Warchief, then manipulate him to your will by tricking him with dishonorable subterfuges that secretly undermine him. I am glad you stepped down. And if you mean to step up again once Hellscream is gone you won't find my support."

"I live to show my people a better way," Thrall said harshly. "No matter the cost to myself. I will teach you the lessons you must learn, in whatever capacity you allow me."

"How will you show us your better way, son of Durotan?" Drazgh demanded. "You've failed."

"Have I?" Thrall demanded, eyes flashing. "I will admit defeat only when death takes me."

"Nobody gives a damn what you admit!" Drazgh snapped. "Can you still not see it? You declared your failure the moment you stepped down as Warchief and raised Garrosh in your stead. When you stepped away, abandoned all your efforts. However honorable your reasons, however reasonable your decisions, your people saw none of that. They only saw you admitting defeat. And the fact that the Warchief you chose as your replacement is your opposite in nearly every way only serves to cement your failure in the eyes of all orcs. The only wisdom you've shown is in not raising the slightest protest to Hellscream's actions, backing down like the whipped cur you are instead of continuing a fight you've already lost."

Thrall still didn't become angry enough to challenge him. He never would. Drazgh had watched him flee a far more important duel with Hellscream, and that was all he needed to see. "Drazgh the Terror," he said quietly. "You led the first forays into Ashenvale. Your grunts were the ones who nearly raped a night elf woman in defiance of the Warchief's orders, nearly drawing the outrage of the Alliance to such an extent that peace would be impossible."

"Rape is a human word," Drazgh said with contempt. He wondered how Thrall had heard of that incident.

"Oh? And what's the human word for what you did on Aldor Rise?"

Drazgh reeled back as if struck. "What?" he whispered.

"Did you know your deeds on that day were boasted of by your fellow veterans long after the war ended? Even long after we became free of Mannoroth's chains? The exultant stories they told of what you did to the females, to the children. Burning Legion honor. Old Horde honor. Do we still follow such honor, that you would hear of the crimes those under your command nearly committed, actions that other races find more despicable than slaughtering children, and care nothing?"

Drazgh tried to speak, but his old, dry throat seized on the words. He didn't even know what he would've said. His nightmares were a weakness he told to no one, but Thrall's blindly struck accusation had pierced him deep.

Thrall stepped forward, pressing his chest into Drazgh's and pushing him back slightly. His blue eyes blazed with anger. Not the rage of bloodlust, but something purer. "What of it, Drazgh the Terror? Did you approve your warriors trying to mate with that sentinel? Did you consider joining in?"

"No!" Drazgh snarled, finally finding his voice. "I forbade it, and my own daughter prevented one such incident. I value the honor of other races, even if it is not orcish. I would never willingly support an act that so horribly dishonored any foe in their own eyes."

Thrall didn't back down. "Did you punish those who attempted it? Those who watched it?"

Drazgh allowed himself to be pushed back another step, looking away. This is the Warchief Thrall might've been for the Horde. Why had he never risen to accept this mantle? "I heaped dishonor upon them in other ways. It won't happen again."

Thrall finally backed away too, looking suddenly sad. "It will always happen again, Elder. Until we accept the better way, until our leaders accept it and demand it of their warriors, it will always happen again." He hesitated. "Still, I am glad to hear this of your daughter. Perhaps she truly is worthy to bear the charge I lay upon her."

Aggra stepped up beside them, giving Thrall a questioning glance, and he nodded. "Where is she to be found?" she asked.

Drazgh nodded humorlessly. "At this time of day, or any other? The training grounds."

.

Deneth wiped the sweat from her brow, dropping into a crouch as she panted to get her breath.

Next to her the handle log she'd been towing was slick with more of her sweat where it had rested on her shoulders. The harsh Durotar sun was already burning it away, leaving dark stains as a testament to the hours she'd spent lugging it.

That first night back had soured her taste for revelry, further soured by her father's humiliation at the hands of a halfbreed, shaming him and his family name. What was the point of going out for fun when every attempt to drink ended in a brawl? She never thought she'd tire of fighting, but repetition was dulling her enthusiasm, as was every insult she was forced to respond to.

While she still drank with Dek'Terror in the barracks, she'd spent most of her time since returning to Orgrimmar at the training grounds, or working with Dek'Terror's new recruits to whip them into shape. In a way it was as if the raid in Ashenvale had never happened, and all the work she'd done to prove herself, all the honor and glory she'd won, made little difference.

Even weeks later they were still waiting for their share of the loot to be distributed. There were whisperings that with the relentless night elf raids on the supply lines they'd never get their share. Some of the veterans griped about going out to protect the supplies themselves since the fools guarding the lines now couldn't seem to be trusted. Dek'Terror had fared well enough against the suzh'algez, after all.

Any such suggestions spoken in Ursug's hearing earned a fierce beating. They had their orders, loot be damned, and they'd follow them. But not even the blood guard was happy about the situation.

Deneth sighed and pushed back to her feet, every muscle in her legs burning fiercely enough that she nearly tottered. She was debating whether to grab some water and food or do another lap with the handle log when she noticed a female Mag'har watching her from the edge of the training grounds.

The brown-skinned orc was older, and not nearly as muscled as Deneth herself. Even so the confidence of her bearing in the face of her lack of physical intimidation was one Deneth had learned to associate with shamans or other channelers of the elements and ancestral spirits.

Odd. Of all casters besides druids shamans were the most willing to wade into the middle of a fight, usually with fist weapons like claws extending from their knuckles, but even so she rarely saw one at these training grounds unless they were looking for a challenge. They had their own ways of training, usually under a master.

Even odder, though she'd never met the female she'd heard descriptions of the shaman who'd trained the former Warchief in Garadar, and this female seemed to fit them. Aggra of the Mag'har was a member of the Earthen Ring, those lofty fools who thought themselves above joining the battle against the Alliance. They'd all been called away after the Cataclysm to face threats Deneth couldn't even imagine.

What was she doing here?

She had her answer when the Mag'har came forward, seeing her rest finished. "You are Deneth called Limbrender?" she asked.

Deneth nodded curtly. "You have some need of me, Elder?" While still not quite old enough to warrant the honorific, the path shamans took as spiritual leaders of the clans earned them a place among the older, more experienced warriors.

The shaman nodded. "I am Aggralan," she said, confirming Deneth's suspicions. She looked Deneth over closely, eyes thoughtful. "Word of you seems accurate enough. I've rarely seen such a physically imposing female. Do you fight as well as you carry heavy burdens?"

Deneth stiffened slightly. That had almost sounded like she was being called a peon. But shamans were known to test warriors in odd ways, often looking more at their temperament and bearing than their prowess in battle for their judgments. She wasn't about to rise to a possible insult and fail some arbitrary test. "I can show you if you care to spar, shaman."

Aggra nodded. "It is why I'm here, warrior. Do you have your weapons and armor handy?"

"Of course." Deneth hesitated. "I've wearied myself with training. I may not make as good a showing as I normally would."

"Ready yourself anyway."

With another dubious look at the Mag'har Deneth moved over to her gear and got to work, trying to be quick. Heavy plate couldn't be donned quickly, but Aggra came over and aided her with the more irritating tasks.

As she worked on the final ties the shaman moved over to the water barrel. Rather than using the wooden cup or ladle she thrust her hands right in, murmuring quietly to herself. The water in the barrel began sloshing, glowing a faint blue, and then she drew her hands out. Between her outstretched palms a globe of water shimmered and bulged. She turned to Deneth and thrust it towards her, and Deneth flinched in spite of herself.

Shockingly cold, colder than the barrel water even in midwinter, splashed over her closed eyes and sweaty features. But rather than being unpleasant it was surprisingly exhilarating, whisking away weariness and the heat of the day. Deneth lifted her hand to wipe her eyes, and found to her surprise that the ache in her muscles was diminished as if she'd had hours of rest. Her stiffness was gone.

"I wouldn't want you to think you're going into this at anything but full strength," Aggra said, smiling. "You'll need your axe."

Deneth looked down at Render doubtfully, then at the unarmed and unarmored shaman. "Practice weapons and armor are available," she said.

Aggra bared her tusks. "I have all I need."

"Maybe I should use one, at least. Render has severed many limbs, and if you want a true showing of my skill I shouldn't be holding myself back."

The Mag'har growled and thumped her chest in invitation. "If you can draw blood you deserve to. Come, young one, hold nothing back."

Deneth growled and stooped to snatch up her axe. She launched herself at the shaman from that crouch, swinging her weapon in a disemboweling stroke.

Aggra spun, hands out, and the wind howled around them. Deneth thought she'd leapt right at the Mag'har but in midair she realized she'd miss completely. She struggled to correct, slamming her feet down to halt her progress. Her landing was clean, but as Aggra darted towards her and she twisted to meet the attack her footing became unstable and she stumbled.

Wonderful. She couldn't trust her footing, and if she jumped the air itself would divert her? She'd fought shamans before, and watched others fight them, but she'd never seen tricks like this employed.

Fists slammed against her gorget, dull solid _thumps_ louder than bare knuckles should've managed. And there was more strength behind those blows than she'd expected from the smaller female.

She found herself flying backwards, stumbling on perfectly flat ground that was inexplicably unsteady. Before she knew it her helmet was clanging against the ground, Render twisted out of her grip from her awkward landing.

Deneth glared up at the calm Mag'har. "You can't win this fight with your own strength?" she demanded, picking herself up off the ground and retrieving Render.

The Mag'har shaman smiled. "We win with whatever strength we can grasp. If we control that strength then it becomes our own. Come, warrior, you're not impressing me."

With a snarl Deneth threw herself forward again, moving as lightly as she could in her heavy boots to compensate for the unsteady ground. She held Render close for the sorts of swings she'd use against an opponent she was grappling, since she meant to be practically touching the shaman before she tried to land another blow.

The steadiness of the ground threw her off, but she kept her steps light and cautious as she flew towards her opponent. When twin gale winds slammed against her in opposing directions, away from Aggra on her chest and towards the shaman around her legs, those light steps proved her undoing. She found her feet flying out from under her and she slammed into the ground in a clatter of armor.

She heard laughter from around the edges of the training grounds, and even other training orcs were pausing to watch her humiliation.

Deneth gritted her teeth, shoving into a crouch. "Again." Without waiting for a response she rushed forward.

As she'd hoped Aggra used the same move, this time a gale of wind gripping the head of her axe and trying to rip it from her hands. But Deneth had learned what she'd needed from feeling that wind the last time. Setting her feet she turned the axe blade edge-on and sliced it through the wind. The wind roared past to buffet her once again, but she'd managed to move in time.

With a roar she flipped her axehead, exposing the broad part to the full force of the wind. She pushed it down beneath her and jumped up and forward, and the wind pushing at the axe lifted her higher. Rather than using her strength to push Render she let the wind pushing it back go unchecked, and since she was in the air it resulted in levering her even faster up and forward, over the gale.

As a final move she let the wind blow her axe back behind her and then up in an arc over her head, completing her flip only a few feet away from Aggra and with the full force of her weight flinging Render at the female in a vicious downward slash. Alarm bells rang at the realization of what was about to happen, but Aggra had told her to hold nothing back. And the way she'd toyed with Deneth up til now was motivation enough to put everything she had into it.

Her axe struck hard, the force of the blow shivering up her arms. It hit so solidly that she almost dropped Render, the first time she would've dropped a weapon since she was a child. No blow against flesh could've been so solid; she felt like she'd just smashed Render against a stone.

She recoiled, stumbling backwards, and the clang of the blow shivered in the air. A clang, even though Aggra was dressed simply in a leather tunic.

Deneth looked up in time to see black stone covering Aggra's shoulder and face where the axe had hit, slowly fracturing and flaking away into nothingness as the Mag'har let the spell fade.

Aggra stepped forward and offered her hand to help Deneth up. "I withdraw my words from before," she said. "Your familiarity with your weapon, and with your own strength and agility, is surprising for one so young."

Deneth ignored the proffered hand and easily pushed to her feet. But she did take a moment to wipe stinging hands against her Hellscream's Eye tabard, one at a time as she stubbornly held onto Render. "I've never fought a shaman before. If you can make your skin stone how can anyone hope to beat you?"

The female smiled. "Your Render nearly shattered my stoneskin. I could feel it fracturing. Thrall spoke highly of you when he sent me to test you for this journey, and I can see why. You're a fine young orc."

The patronizing words didn't please Deneth, even if they were meant kindly. But she wasn't about to take offense from a female who could toss her around with wind like a plaything and had a face you could literally break your fist on.

"What journey?" she demanded.

Aggra bared her tusks. "One your father spoke to your worthiness for. He convinced my mate to choose you over other candidates."

Deneth felt a swelling of pride, but also irritation. "I don't need my father to speak for me."

Her tone came reproving. "He is your general, is he not?"

Deneth clamped her mouth shut around more stupid responses. Of course he would speak for her, if anyone would. But was his motivation her skill, or her lineage?

The Mag'har turned. "Come, you'll probably need things from your home. Walk with me."

Deneth fell into step beside the older woman, still smarting from her humiliating bout. She'd endured magical attacks before, but none of any real power. No wonder real warriors spoke of spellcasters with such disgust and annoyance.

"My mate tells me no male has been strong enough to claim you," Aggra abruptly said. Deneth nodded proudly. "An honor, but a sad one as well. Do you not long for a mate?"

"I long for one deserving of me."

The Mag'har shook her head, almost in disapproval. "My people do not do it this way anymore. Among the Mag'har we find a mate we can love and respect, and we treat them as equals. Perhaps you would find a worthy Mag'har male more suitable."

Deneth frowned, wondering if she was being mocked. "Why would I lie and treat an inferior as equal?"

"For my people it is not a lie."

"How can it not be? Some are stronger, some are weaker. Few are truly equal."

Aggra frowned in irritation. "Wouldn't you like to have a male who treats you as an equal, rather than one who thinks you are less than him?"

Now she was sure she was being teased. "If he was strong enough to take me and he treated me as an equal, he would be mocking me. I don't want a mate who mocks me. I want one who respects my strength, but respects his own even more."

The shaman sighed in disappointment, and Deneth wondered if she'd failed some test. "Stubbornness is usually a vice, but our people seem determined to turn it into a true failing, and no one wants to change. Stubbornness about being stubborn, what a snake devouring its own tail."

"Do you wish to instruct me or insult me, Elder?" Deneth demanded.

Aggra looked over at her sharply. "Neither, young one. My words were for myself. When you're ready for instruction you'll seek it, I hope."

"If you want me to pack I have to know where I'm going."

The shaman looked equally amused and sympathetic. "Hyjal, Deneth Limbrender."

.

The Horde representatives to Hyjal gathered at the western gates of Orgrimmar, watched by passersby going to the river to draw water, curious orc civilians with nothing better to do, and Horde vassal races from the nearby refugee camp. All kept their distance, however.

Among them Drazgh recognized Bravik Windhoof, along with a female tauren bearing a set of shamanic ceremonial totems on her back. The female, Clovis Grassrunner, bore a shirt and breeches of mail made with broad interlocking loops of iron, while Bravik wore a full set of rugged kodohide armor, with the helm and breastplate boiled to near metallic hardness.

Near them a troll in raptor hide festooned with fetishes crouched, long tusks banded in dark iron. Jin'zur, a ward of Vol'jin and closely trained by the troll chieftain. He bore a long, dark bow of scavenged dragonbone, with a large quiver of arrows nearly as large as those night elves used. Probably large enough to be interchangeable.

The blood elf male stood a bit aloof from the party, dressed all in soft leather dyed green and brown with a long camouflaged cloak, longsword and long knife belted at his waist. And settled in the shaman's lap a tiny figure rested comfortably, chatting happily with the female tauren. Like her escort she was dressed in clothes that would help her fade into the green of a forest, although her clothes were made of some kind of spellwoven cloth.

That wasn't the biggest problem he had with her.

"I'm not comfortable with this," Drazgh said, glowering at the elvish girl. "That child, she's far too young for a mission such as this. She can't be more than, what, ten, eleven?"

The former Warchief shook his head. "She's who the blood elves sent. She may be youthful in appearance, even for one of her kind, but I've spoken to her guardian. He informed me that the girl is only slightly younger than your own daughter, and an almost shockingly adept student of the arcane."

Drazgh gave the child another close look. "I can hardly believe either of those things, looking at her."

Thrall glanced at him, perhaps to see if Drazgh was accusing him of lying. "She is also of mixed race, human and elf. I am given to understand she spent her early years in Stormwind, and is on friendly terms with both sides of her heritage. Her presence should help soothe diplomatic tensions between Horde and Alliance, in many ways _because_ of her apparent youth and vulnerability."

The half-elf girl glanced over at them, and seeing she was being watched she skipped their way and grabbed Thrall's hand. "Elder Shaman Thrall," she said brightly, craning her neck to look up at his face. "Can I see you summon a ghost wolf? Clovis said she couldn't."

Thrall regarded her soberly, although the hint of a smile played around his tusks. "I'm afraid not, Mistress Anette. The elements are not to be called upon for frivolous purposes."

She stuck out her lower lip, looking at him with big eyes. "But making me happy isn't frivolous, is it?" He just looked at her, so she hung her head sadly. "Okay." The girl abruptly stiffened, eager again. "Can _you_ turn into a ghost wolf then?"

"I'm afraid not, child."

The half-elf again looked disappointed. "Oh. That's okay, I love you anyway." Jumping up, she placed a delicate peck on Thrall's cheek, then turned and danced back over to where her guardian stood watching in amusement.

Drazgh turned to the former Warchief. "That wisp is of an age with my daughter," he said flatly. "And yet she acts like a child of six. Even if she's old enough physically in spite of all evidence to the contrary, is she emotionally mature enough to go on such a dangerous mission? It would be dishonorable to send someone so obviously unprepared for what's to come."

Thrall shook his head, still looking amused. "Don't be fooled by Mistress Anette's childlike behavior. It's a carefully crafted act, hiding a very sharp mind behind it. Perhaps her friendliness and affection are genuine, but they're also meant to manipulate others."

"And how can you know this?"

Thrall turned to face him, blue eyes sober. "Because I was specific in what this mission required when I went to the Council of Silvermoon, as well as its dangers. And fulfilling those requirements they sent her. The blood elf leaders think she can do the job and I'm inclined to trust their judgment." Thrall turned and looked through the gates, nodding to whoever he saw. "Ah, your daughter. And the final member of our party is not far behind."

Drazgh accepted Deneth's salute and returned it. "Go and greet the others, daughter," he said. Deneth nodded and made her way over, nodding at Bravik. She recognized him from the campaign spent with her uncle, and had met him on a few occasions since Hellscream had returned to Orgrimmar.

The final member of the party was a goblin, slightly larger than others of his kind and lugging a pack nearly as heavy as he was. He bore no weapon aside from a mining pick strapped to his pack.

"Hey boss, checking in," the goblin said cheerfully.

Thrall nodded. "I see you're prepared. Greet the others and you'll be on your way."

"Sure thing." The goblin strode over to the blood elf standing aloof. "Heya, Castaway," the goblin said with the usual smarmy, deceitful grin of his kind. "Long time no see."

The blood elf gave him a vague smile. "Such is the nature of this world. Ever we are parted, our reunions ever made more joyous by absence. Who were you, again?"

"Hal Sparkfuse," the goblin said, looking slightly annoyed. "We spent all that time together in Northrend. What, calling you Castaway didn't ring any bells?"

"Oh right, right." Nova bent down and clasped the goblin's hand enthusiastically. "How've you been, old chap? The party will be all the merrier for a well-known face."

Hal retrieved his hand, still looking put out. "I'm surprised to see you here. You're not active in Horde affairs in Orgrimmar, are you? I don't see you around."

Nova shrugged. "Sometimes when you piss off the Council they actually punish you for it."

"Oh come off it, Hiezal, how could it be a punishment to spend time with so many great people?" Anette skipped over and leaned down a bit to plant a kiss on the tip of Hal's nose. She was barely a head taller than him. "Hi!" she said.

The goblin gave her a confused, somewhat uncomfortable look. "Um, good to meet you too, lady. Have we met?"

"Nope! But if you're a friend of Hiezal's then I like you." She turned and skipped away.

Nova leaned down and stage whispered in the goblin's ear. "She'd like you anyway. She likes everyone."

"All right," Thrall said, stepping forward. "I trust you'll all get along well and live up to the expectations the Horde's placed upon you." He reached into a bag he held and began pulling out folded squares of cloth, handing them out. "These are tabards of the Guardians of Hyjal," he said, shaking out a tiny one that had to be for either the goblin or the child. It was woody brown edged with leafy green, with a spreading tree of the same green color across the chest. "From the time you put them on your membership of the Horde is in abeyance. You are official neutral, tasked to enter Hyjal and aid Ysera the Dreamer and Malfurion Stormrage in ridding the area of Twilight's Hammer cultists."

Deneth looked the group over, frowning. "So few, to meet this threat in Hyjal?"

Drazgh scowled at her. "Thrall's venture. The Chieftain wants a token show of support from the Horde, without enough warriors to make them fear a sneak attack at some target in Hyjal."

She showed flash of indignation. "They would accuse us of such deception?"

Thrall opened his mouth, but Drazgh responded harshly before he could speak. "What do you think our invasion into Ashenvale was?"

"But the peace talks failed!"

"Yes," Thrall finally said sternly, taking the conversation back. "And behind the scenes I made promises that Garrosh couldn't keep. Your presence in Hyjal is in part to heal that rift. This mission is more than fighting, young Limbrender. The tauren, the blood elves, Jin'zur, you. All of you are more than just the average rank and file, and tied by blood or other means to influential Horde leaders. You're going to ease tension between us and our enemies."

"What kind of idiocy is that?" she demanded. "We just attacked them!"

"It's idiocy I've asked for and your Warchief has permitted," Thrall said, his tone indicating his patience was wearing thin.

"So we're not going to fight at all, but for diplomacy? I'm no diplomat."

Thrall looked rueful. "There'll be fighting, I assure you. Probably more than you'd expect. Your job is to make sure that none of it is with the night elves or other Alliance. For now, for this, consider them your allies."

"Like previous campaigns?" she said sarcastically.

Drazgh's patience at his daughter's cheek snapped, and he stepped forward to deliver a sharp backhand that sent her staggering back. "You have your orders," he growled. "Whatever the reason for this task, your inclusion in this group is an honor you should be grateful for. Unless you'd like me to find a more worthy female?"

Deneth wiped at the blood trickling down to her chin from where her lower right tusk had split her lip. "Find one if you can," she snarled.

Drazgh turned away in disgust. "Not the answer I was looking for, grunt. Return to our home."

Deneth gritted her teeth. "I'll obey your orders, General, Chieftain" she reluctantly said. "My word and my family's name on it."

Thrall looked disapprovingly between them both, for some reason seeming uncomfortable at Drazgh disciplining his offspring and subordinate warrior. "I'm pleased to hear it, Deneth. Officially you're the only member of this party with a rank in the Horde army. While you're neutral and thus unaffiliated, if you should need to invoke rank I'm promoting you to sergeant at your general's recommendation." He reached into the bag and withdrew an sergeant's chain and shoulder affixes.

Deneth accepted them, looking surprised. "An honor, Chieftain," she said.

Thrall inclined his head. "Nominally this group will have no leader. You will have to work and cooperate. But I still look to your experience and leadership to aid your companions."

His daughter saluted, and the group occupied themselves with putting on their new tabards. Thrall was just about to open his mouth again to offer some final words when he was interrupted.

"What're you doing here, Hal?" an angry voice from behind snapped. "I've been looking everywhere for you!" Blitwhistle pushed past them to confront his subordinate, hands on his hips.

For his part Sparkfuse seemed nonchalant. "The Chieftain says you want me here, boss, I'm here."

Blitwhistle whirled to glare at them. "Is this true?" he demanded.

Thrall returned his look calmly. "I requested a recommendation for one of your subordinates suitable for a specific task, with keen survival skills and diplomatic proficiency."

"I thought that was for Twilight Highlands invasion hypotheticals!" the overseer said. "I didn't think you were going to yoink my second in command out from under me to go on a fool's errand in Hyjal!"

Drazgh frowned. "This task is-"

Blitwhistle cut him off, livid enough to be daring. "I'm working myself half to death here!" he shouted. "You got me running half the Horde as it is, and Hal's the only reason construction of the fleet is on schedule. No way in hell you're taking him!"

The former Warchief was starting to look annoyed. "Then give me another suitable candidate for this."

"Oh no!" Blitwhistle said, throwing up his hands. Behind him Hal sat on the hot stone, grinning. "No, you're not getting a single one of my workers. We're all putting in double overtime trying to get your stupid fleet off the ground, and anyway you don't get to send us on things like this. Goblins are super-intelligent and small, what makes you think we're more valuable for frontline combat or adventuring? Most of us don't even feel the need to learn magic."

"If you-"

"We're engineers, for the sake of whatever gods you're paying me to believe in!" Blitwhistle raved. "We make the weapons your meatheads use to pound enemies flat. Leave us to that and we don't turn the tide of battles, we win _wars_. But you want to kick us around bitching about every single impossible task you don't give us the tools to complete, then send one of my best workers off on a suicide mission to help Alliance idiots protect their precious tree, and you expect-"

It was Thrall's turn to cut in. "I think we get the point, Overseer," he said stiffly. "If you can't spare anyone, you can't spare anyone. But the goblins had best not complain about not being properly represented in the Horde."

Blitwhistle pointed vaguely east. "We'll be represented by fifty airships capable of slaughtering armies, that's what we'll be represented by. Move it, Hal, back to work."

The other goblin scratched a nearly horizontal ear, giving them an apologetic look as he pushed to his feet and shed the tabard. "Sorry, boss."

"You didn't tell us you were so vital to the manufactory," Drazgh accused in a low growl.

Hal merely shrugged. "You shoulda known, General. You've been around every day right? Anyway I heard the boss recommended it and I interpreted that as an assignment. Miscommunication, that's all. Cya."

The blood elf male watched him go. "What a shame," he said. "There goes the only one in the group capable of carrying an interesting conversation."

Jin'zur paused in fitting his bow and pack over his newly acquired tabard. "What's that supposed ta mean, elf?"

Nova gave a friendly smile. "Nothing, nothing! Just that goblins are intelligent and educated, which makes them good conversationalists."

"And trolls be stupid and ignorant, den?"

The blood elf shrugged. "Hey, _I _didn't say anything."

The troll glared, fingering one of the long curved knives at his waist. "Shouldn't ya be findin' races who've lived longer than ya by thousands of years and trappin' dem in their lands?"

Nova's smile turned less particularly friendly. "You know what would be great? If we could find races that didn't try to invade us and steal _our_ lands. Then we wouldn't have to force them to stay on their side of the playground."

"Ya stole from da Amani first, takin' their lands and startin' ya wars," Jin'zur snarled. "What room da ya have ta talk?"

The blood elf shrugged. "Ancient history. Just like all your own far more numerous aggressions are history. We're all on the same side now, remember? Unfortunately."

Drazgh glanced at Thrall, wondering why the former Warchief wasn't stepping in to pound heads on this. Before he could intervene with some well placed blows of his own Anette stormed between the troll and blood elf, hands on her hips as she glared her escort down.

"Now Hiezal, be nice to Jin'zur," the tiny half-elf scolded.

The older blood elf bristled in indignation. "But he's the one who-"

"Be nice," she repeated firmly."We _like_ him."

Both males stared down at her, surprised. Actually _everyone_ stared at her. "We do?" Nova asked.

In answer Anette came over and took Jin'zur's hand, literally taking his side against her guardian. "We do. He's sweet."

Nova cast a suspicious glance the troll's way. For his part Jin'zur looked like he had no idea what to do in this situation. "Sweet? How the hell would you even know? We just met him."

The girl smirked and came over to rest her forehead against the older blood elf's chest. "Everyone's sweet to me, that's how I know."

Nova abruptly laughed and wrapped his arms around the young half-elf, lifting her chin and stooping to kiss her cheek. "Of course they do. How could anyone _not_ like you?_"_

"It's impossible," she agreed.

He laughed again, pulled her tighter, and his hands resting on her back dropped lower. Much lower. Drazgh raised his eyebrows, reassessing the pair's relationship.

"Ah maiden sweet, my dear Anette," Nova whispered, pretending it was only for her ears but loud enough someone ten yards away could've heard. "For you I'd slay my wight. I'd storm the keep and the ocean deep, in fact I do both every night."

Anette giggled at him, brushing her lips against his before stepping away. "I love it when you make my song dirty. You'll definitely be doing _both_ tonight."

The blood elf glanced over at Jin'zur. "No hard feelings, friend?" he asked. "If nothing else we can have intelligent conversations about history."

Before the troll could answer Thrall stepped forward. "I trust you all to keep things amicable, under the able hands of Mistress Anette. Travel swiftly and without incident, my friends. Remember your neutrality, and make _no_ aggressive moves against the Alliance. If they threaten violence do everything in your power to diffuse the tension, leaving fighting as the absolute last resort. Consider any hostilities with Alliance as failing the mission."

The group nodded as one, everyone but Nova looking solemn. As the others turned to make their way to the Southfury River's ford Deneth hung back to stand beside Drazgh. Thrall stepped away to give them their space.

"I apologize for speaking up, General," she said formally. "I swear I'll obey my orders as given and bring honor to our family's name."

Drazgh nodded. "You will," he growled. He gave her a salute, which she returned crisply before turning to hurry after her companions.

He had duties to be about, but as she disappeared he stood in the shadow of the gates watching her go. Even Thrall departed before him, his mate coming to take him away for whatever grand destiny they had to fulfill in the Maelstrom.

"Fight well, daughter," he whispered when she was long gone. "The greatest honor is to die in battle, but I claim that honor for myself before I'll let you earn it."

With that he felt foolish, and he hurried back into the city. Dek'Terror needed to be prepared for the Twilight Highlands invasion, and it would probably be prudent to set them to training alongside the trolls. He couldn't allow the tension between Vol'jin and the Warchief to play itself out in the rank and file.


	9. Moving On

_Hey all. Back from hiatus at last. How could I stay away from this story?_

Jaina Proudmoore: traitor to the Alliance, or just a complete moron? YOU DECIDE!

We first see her spying on a conversation between the leader of Dalaran and a strange dignitary. Luckily Antonidas seems to think it's charming rather than being super pissed off.

Next we find her being attacked by ogres. This technically isn't her being stupid, but seriously, why the hell is Arthas like "Haha stfu Captain Wants to Help the Damsel in Distress. She can take care of herself." Then the captain's like "How do you know that? Are you going to just sit around and watch her get smashed into paste by ogres? When do we not step in to help friends and allies, even if they can "take care of themselves? Don't you feel the slightest bit protective about the shorty you used to bang the shit out of?"

So during the siege of Hearthglen half the villagers become undead monstrosities and they find out a massive army is coming for them and Arthas only has a small force. Arthas tells her, a mage with teleport, to go get help, and she's like "But you need help!" and he's like "Duh, that's why I'm asking you to go get it!"

Just before the Culling of Stratholme, Medivh (sorry, "The Prophet") comes to Arthas on the road. After giving one of his usual vague, garbled, borderline insulting warnings and being brushed off by Arthas Jaina appears out of nowhere and is like "Oh btw I was spying on you. I do that. Anyway I think you should listen to him. He's very powerful." Then Arthas is like "What the hell does power have to do with whether or not he's trustworthy? He's telling me to abandon my oaths as a paladin and my duty to my people, in fact the fate of this entire continent, and go haring off to an unknown land to face nebulous perils he didn't bother to specify." Then she's like, all lamely, "Well he may be right about the undead. If every one of our soldiers that dies adds to their army how do we win?" Then he's like "By killing their leaders and eliminating the source of undeath you stupid bitch. That's why we're going to Stratholme. God I can't believe I ever slept with you. I must've been wearing earplugs."

Now let's get to the Culling of Stratholme. Jaina knows very well that the plagued villagers become ten times as dangerous when they become undead. Even so the moral decision would've been to either do everything they could to save them and kill them as they turn, or quarantine the city and burn it to the ground after any unaffected evacuate. Instead she hears Arthas's plan and is like "Horror! I can't do anything even remotely violent because my character is peacemongering to the point of stupidity!" Then she leaves under the logic that, hey, since she doesn't agree with him anymore her duty towards helping Lordaeron and humanity against the Scourge isn't relevant so she can go home. She doesn't even stay with Uther and help him or anything. And by the way where the hell did Uther go? He still has a duty to the people even if he disagrees with Arthas.

Okay now Jaina's ditched Arthas and abandoned the peril of Lordaeron. Now seems like a great time to jump on that nebulous prophet warning she was so interested in hearing because the dude was so awesome and powerful. So she gets a large force of humans desperately needed in the fight against the Scourge, and she convinces them to join her in betraying king, country, and species and go off to god knows where. I can only assume that, like Arthas, she used being the princess of Kul Tiras to wield authority she didn't have and command people not actually sworn to obey her. Cya Eastern Kingdoms, hope you manage that Scourge thing okay without us. No we're not traitors because it's for the greater good. (SPOILER, Jaina uses this excuse A LOT)

So then she gets there and finds SURPRISE! Medivh also brought the orcs there. Oh and the orcs are their usual vicious barbaric selves and start slaughtering humans. Not only that but the night elves they discover are ALSO attacking them. But Jaina holds to her determination to find some mysterious oracle and get answers. When she finds him it turns out SURPRISE! to be Medivh. Jaina immediately agrees that working with the brutes that've been viciously attacking her from the first is a wonderful idea, instead of getting all pissed off and saying "If we're all here at your request to work together to fight a huge threat, why the hell didn't you tell us so in the first place so we didn't spend the last few months slaughtering each other and weakening all our forces?" (HINT: Medivh doesn't seem like the sharpest pen in the drawer either)

(While we're talking about vicious brutes, Thrall is the supposedly moral, peaceful visionary of the Orcish clan who's going to lead them to a brighter future. But during the entire War3 campaign Thrall's stance seems to go like this: Well we shouldn't attack these people because it's wrong, peace would be better for everyone, and it makes us exactly like the Old Horde whose influence I'm trying to free my people from. But it just so happens that we ARE attacking them, so we might as well slaughter them without mercy or the slightest bit of guilt. But I'm still a good guy.)

So after the battle of Mount Hyjal Jaina takes her decimated survivors to create a new settlement in Kalimdor (What was that again about their oaths to Lordaeron and the other Eastern Kingdoms? So they're not only oathbreakers but deserters now?) She finally gets to YAY have peace with everyone like she wants to. But then SADFACE dear old Daddy comes along. Dear old Daddy has a functioning brain, complete with memory and deductive reasoning. He's able to see that the orcs have been nothing but violent since coming to Azeroth. They prosecuted a decades-long campaign of genocide against every race in the Eastern Kingdoms until they were defeated. Rather than being slaughtered they were shown mercy, and their thanks for that was to fight their way out of their prison camps and slaughter any humans between them and their escape from lawful prosecution.

So Daelin Proudmoore's come seeking the escaped criminals, on account of a new orc leader and attempts to recreate themselves as a species doesn't mean their crimes are suddenly washed away. Jaina's all like "But Papa, I LOVE orcs!" And Daelin's like "I'm sure you do, whore. You do realize that even on Kalimdor they slaughtered you up to the point where it was work with humans or be exterminated themselves. And as soon as they get a foothold they're going to start right up again. Are you a moron as well as a traitor to your own people?"

Rather than answer this insightful question Jaina helps the orcs butcher her father and every single one of her former countrymen. Wait, wasn't Jaina rabid about peace? No, just when it comes to peace with the orcs that involves validating their brutal and aggressive behavior. If Jaina was married to the orcs she'd be wearing makeup to cover big ol' bruises on her face and having miscarriages beaten out of her left and right, and she'd still hang onto the policeman's arm as he came to drag the sack of filth off to prison, protesting her undying love and the innocence of her abuser.

During the next few decades Jaina's always there to teleport away anyone who even DARES lift a finger against any orc, in spite of whatever justification they might have (HINT: the Horde is usually the ones starting the trouble). She prevents Varian from annihilating the Forsaken during the Siege of Undercity (Oh sorry, Eastern Kingdoms. I guess Gilneas and Southshore will have to be sacrifices in the cause of one-sided peace between the Alliance and Horde. If the Alliance tries hard enough it'll have peace with the Horde, right? Sure, once they've slaughtered everyone). When Garrosh attacks Varian on sight during a peaceful negotiation, for once it wasn't her who intervened, but Rhonin (SPOILER ALERT: Hey Jaina, your love affair with the people slaughtering your own kind gets him killed too. And in your own city. How do you like them apples?)

Uh oh Jaina, Thrall has stepped down from his position as Warchief. Wasn't he the source of your hope for Orcish redemption? Looks like you're not the only one who can betray those who trust him, since Thrall left the world a present by putting Garrosh in charge in his stead. And now the orcs are beating the drums of war. They just openly attacked the night elves right after a peace summit. Are you still their biggest cheerleader?

WAIT WHAT?! You're actually going to attack them? Oh, just a tiny little hunting village filled with taurens, who up to this point have been very reluctant participants in Horde aggression? That doesn't make much sense, but YOU STUPID BITCH! NOW SUDDENLY EVERY VILE ACT THE HORDE HAS DONE UP TO NOW IS COMPLETELY JUSTIFIED, BECAUSE THE ALLIANCE AREN'T 100% SNOWY INNOCENT WHITE! AND YOU DID IT TO THE TAUREN TOO EVEN THOUGH BAINE IS LIKE YOUR BEST BUD.

Oh shit, Garrosh suddenly remembered you exist and that you're human. Here comes the combined might of the Horde. Right. Down. Your. Throat. Call for help from the people you constantly betrayed to help the orcs. Here they come. It looks like you might be strong enough to fight off this siege. But oh wait, it turns out that Garrosh used you for one last betrayal. He was just trying to lure as many Alliance forces to your city as he could before DROPPING A MANA BOMB ON YOUR HEAD.

Oh. Oh shit. Jaina. Jaina. Jainaaaaaa. Those people you love so much just dropped a weapon of mass destruction on a bunch of innocent civilians and destroyed your beloved city. Now you have to face the unpleasant truth that you killed your own father to protect these monsters, and have been betraying your people constantly in the name of a peace they don't respect. That's enough to drive anyone insane and make their hair turn white.

Wait what's that, you finally agree the orcs are monsters that need to be utterly destroyed? Well it's about fucking time. Oh and you have the Focusing Iris that gives you Super Saiyan powers. Yes, summon a colossal tidal wave to destroy Orgrimmar, while in the meantime Varian will lead his fleet in a perfectly timed attack that will finish off the Horde now that you've driven them to...their...

Wait a second, you didn't coordinate your attack with Varian, and his fleet is between you and Orgrimmar waiting to be decimated by your tidal wave? Jaina you stupid bitch. You can't even get genocidal revenge right.

Oh good, Thrall's there. He's just as stupid as you are, and in protecting Orgrimmar he also protects the Alliance fleet, rather than letting you destroy it and then stopping the tidal wave before it hits Orgrimmar. So that means Garrosh has a bit of a problem on his hands with this fleet blockading his harbor and getting ready to put boots on the ground.

But krakens.

Hey Jaina. Those cute little green monsters you protected turn out to be much tougher than you thought, and bent on a war of genocide against the other races. No, this isn't just an assumption based on their actions, Garrosh actually told everyone this. What are you going to do?

You're joking right? You're going to take the place of the Archmage your stupidity killed as leader of the Kirin Tor, and then become EVEN MORE NEUTRAL THAN BEFORE?

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

Oh look, here comes Anduin Wrynn, a person who's even more blindly, stupidly, treacherously pro-Horde than you. Wait what, even ANDUIN is telling you you need to attack the Horde to prevent Garrosh from unleashing a sha-induced Cataclysm? And you, who just watched your own people massacred, are requiring ANDUIN to convince you to defend the world from an even worse atrocity?

Just die, Jaina.

Chapter Eight

Getting Closer

Their departure had been just solemn and officious enough to keep them silent as they marched out of sight. Deneth didn't like the fact that they were walking in a confused blob rather than forming a disciplined column, but she wasn't in charge and the group wasn't military, so she didn't feel it her place to say anything.

"Just a moment, mon," Jin'zur said, breaking the silence when they were just beyond the treeline. As the others paused he slowed to a stop and lifted his two long, wide fingers to his lips, giving a surprisingly piercing whistle around his curved tusks.

After a pause where nothing happened a great cat with a rusty red coat and a wheat-colored mane melted out of the trees, padding towards its master.

Anette gave a delighted cry, rushing forward. "Oh, the pretty! You have a springpaw lynx!"

The troll grinned around his tusks. "Ya, girl. Dey be great friends of da Amani."

The tiny half-elf's swift approach startled the cat making for its master, and it paused and gave a warning rumble. Immediately Anette squeaked and darted to hide behind Jin'zur, peeking out with big eyes. "Is he safe?"

Jin'zur whistled again, lower this time, and the cat continued forward, rumbling in a more friendly way as it rubbed its head against his leg. He rested a heavy hand atop the mane, smiling. "Delphine attack on my word, girl. Otherwise she be gentle as a kitten."

Anette cautiously slipped out, exchanging stares with the big cat, who regarded her solemnly. After a hesitant moment she stepped forward and let Delphine sniff her hand, then pet the top of her head. Emboldened, the half-elf darted forward to throw her arms around the lynx's neck, burying her face in the dusky yellow mane. "What a dear! Can I ride her?"

Jin'zur frowned. "She be mah friend and companion for years, girl. She be deserving more den dat indignity. You may as well ask ta ride on my own shoulders."

The tiny girl looked up eagerly. "Ooh, can I?" she begged. "Pretty pretty please?"

Deneth glanced back behind them. The sun was already above the trees, past noon. She'd never set out on a march so late, and she had a feeling the lack of progress was going to eat at her no matter how fast they went. "We're wasting time," she snapped. "Enough foolishness. We have a long way to go if you can't even carry your pack on your own two feet."

Anette gave her a hurt look. "I can, big sister," she said, coming over to take Deneth's hand. "Look I'll walk fast, just like you. We can go in front and set the pace!"

Before Deneth could respond she found herself being tugged forward, the tiny half-elf almost jogging. Deneth took one step for every two of hers, meaning she was still walking at barely above an amble.

"How long can you keep up this pace?" Deneth asked as the others fell in behind them. As if to mock their progress Delphine went frolicking on ahead, pouncing forward and back to them.

Anette shrugged. "I don't know. Usually I have my hawkstrider, but I wasn't about to bring dear Selveya into danger."

Deneth sighed. "So we have to get to Hyjal with all speed, and yet Thrall sets us to walking? I suppose you can't magic us there, mage?"

Anette shook her head. "Nope. The Kirin Tor knows coordinates for portals in night elf lands, but they don't exactly give them out to non-initiates. The closest I could get us is Orgrimmar, so . . ."

"So we're going to be carrying you after all?" Deneth snapped.

The half-elf gave her another hurt look, huge dark eyes beginning to swim with tears. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I wouldn't have come if I thought I was just going to slow everyone down."

"Then maybe you should go back now." Deneth glanced over at Nova, who was ambling along between the trees to their right. Jin'zur had disappeared up ahead with Delphine, scouting their path. It would be a shame to lose both of them, a full third of their party, but moving this slow would drive her insane before they'd gone an hour.

Abruptly the sad, weeping girl gave a giggle. "Good thing I talked this over with Clovis while we were waiting for everyone," she chirped. "Clovis has my back."

Deneth turned a questioning look to the female tauren, who gave a shy smile. "Tauren are used to going long distances at a fast pace. I've made it from Sen'jin village to Orgrimmar in two days before."

Deneth whistled softly at that. Even at a fast march she'd never crossed that distance in less than five. "The tauren are hardy travelers. But we can't all move so quickly."

"Yes we can. Plainsrunning is more than just being in good shape, although we rarely share this gift with others." With a somewhat embarrassed shrug the tauren began humming a deep, throaty chant, which while soft seemed to resonate in the trees around them and in the earth under Deneth's feet. There was something reckless and wild to it, like her memories as a child racing her peers with boundless energy. The sound of it made her blood pound and filled her with a desire to run and jump and try her hand at crazy acrobatics.

It was far different from the kodo drums of battle, which boiled the blood into a frenzy of violence. But at the same time it was different than the drums of travel, which were far more steady and tireless. This wasn't for marching, but for running.

Plainsrunning. She'd heard of it but never truly understood it before.

Anette gave a delighted whoop and darted off in a vaguely northwest direction, zigzagging with her arms outspread as if she were mimicking a goblin glider. To her surprise Deneth gave a bellowing cry of her own and sprang forward to keep pace with the girl. Bravik and Clovis were hard on her heels, while off in the trees Nova was running up trunks and doing backflips in a display of agility Deneth would've hesitated to try even with this wild song pulsing in her blood.

For the rest of that day they didn't catch up to Jin'zur, who must've had ways of his own of moving quickly and tirelessly. But as hour after hour passed they ate the miles away beneath their feet. Anette ran at a full sprint, and on their longer legs Deneth and the tauren moved at a run, and none of them ever got out of breath. Deneth could feel the burning in her legs spreading up her body, showing that her muscles were getting weary as they should. But the pain never became the fiery agony it should have, and every so often Clovis would give them a drink of the water out of her flask and the aches and burns would be partially washed away.

Incredible as it was to move so quickly without becoming tired, Deneth thought it was also a bit unfair. A warrior prided herself on never needing to rely on magic. But if magic increased their physical abilities then it seemed all the effort and training in the world still put them at a disadvantage to those naturally gifted with magic.

But when she raised that question with Clovis the tauren shaman just shook her head and said it wasn't true, although she didn't deign to elaborate.

The sun was disappearing into the undergrowth a bit behind and to the left of them when Nova finally fully joined the group to come run alongside her. Anette dropped back to run alongside her guardian, looking up at him with big dark eyes, but Nova shook his head and slapped her flank, giving her some unspoken message, and with a knowing grin the tiny girl darted ahead again.

The blood elf directed his grin at Deneth. Or maybe it was more of a leer. "Hey baby," he said, waggling his eyebrows. "We'll be camping soon. You interested in a little zug zug?"

Deneth frowned at him. When someone gave you a chore or told you something and wanted a response that's how you answered. Was she interested in a little "yes yes"?

Although from the way he acted he must've thought it had something to do with sex. The thought of mating with a scrawny twig like him was repulsive, almost like mating with a female. Really, the two genders looked almost exactly the same for elves. "You really couldn't force me to."

He tried a smile he probably thought was charming. "Oh come on, I bet I could convince you if-" he cut off when Clovis leaned forward and whispered in his ear, and his eyes widened. "Oh, I couldn't _force_ you to. Literally. I forgot you orcs like being raped."

Deneth's frown deepened. "I don't know what that means."

It was true. Sure, she knew the word, and others had tried to translate it for her. As far as she'd been able to tell it was like mating, except in a bad way. As if there was any such thing. Maybe for other species, but not for orcs.

She casually reached back and patted the head of Render. "Let's pretend you didn't bring this up."

The blood elf's eyes darted to the wicked axe. He didn't exactly swallow nervously, but close. "Hey sure, no problem. But if you change your mind I'd love to try some wrestling. I bet I could pin you two out of three . . ." he paused, letting that thought hang, then finished, "holes."

Deneth grimaced. She was a stranger to sex, but she'd still heard plenty about it in taverns and barracks. And she'd been around enough of the other Horde races to hear their weird quirks. But the thought of using any orifice but the intended one for mating was just . . . nauseating.

Blood elves were the worst for that, she'd heard. You'd think with how prim they were with appearance and cleanliness they'd have more to say about such obviously unhygienic practices.

Since she couldn't think of any response to make that wouldn't injure the blood elf too greatly for him to travel, she simply turned and doubled her pace.

"Hey just remember you're missing out on this!" Nova called after her. "Oh ho I'm the mistletoe . . . hung where you can see."

Deneth caught up to Anette and ran beside her, irritated at the blood that rushed to her face. She didn't consider herself overly traditional, like some orcs, but she would've preferred to not be viewed as a potential mate by blood elves or any other race.

She turned her head at a braying laugh behind her, putting a hitch in their plainsrunning chant as Clovis displayed her mirth. Bravik had Nova in the air by the scruff of his neck, and judging by his expression Deneth assumed the blood elf had made Clovis a similar proposition.

"Don't mind Hiezal," Anette said. "He's a hammer . . . he'll nail anything. Complete man whore."

Deneth frowned. "He accepts money for sex?"

"Not usually." Nova was abruptly there, walking beside her on her other side. "Although if you're offering I wouldn't say no."

"To the money or the sex?" Anette asked, grinning.

"Yes."

Deneth scowled. Paying to mate was like getting an orc drunk or mating with her while she was unresisting. Why would anyone be interested in such an arrangement, male or female, buying or being paid?

Anette must've sensed her discomfort. "Shoo, Hiezal," she said, slapping at the blood elf's arm and hip. "If you can't be nice then go away."

"I don't understand your relationship with your guardian," Deneth said when broke away to do more tree acrobatics. She wouldn't normally have brought up something like this with a near stranger, but Anette was close to her age and friendly. "Is he your father or your lover?"

Anette smiled smugly. "Yes."

Deneth took a moment to sort that out, then stared at the half-elf in horror. "You're mating with your own blood?"

The tiny girl gave a loud, shrieking burst of laughter, causing their companions to look over at them sharply. "He's not my real father," she said cheerfully. "He raised me, though." The girl gave a wicked giggle. "Then I got old enough and I raised _him_."

Deneth honestly didn't know what to say to that. For orcs mating with an adopted son or daughter was almost as despicable as mating with your own blood. Unthinkable. But blood elves had strange ways, and for all their commitment to the Horde Deneth wasn't entirely sure they even _had_ honor.

"Why are you so interested in us?" the girl abruptly asked. Her eyes narrowed in mock jealousy. "You're not interested in Hiezal after all, are you?"

Deneth gave her an incredulous look. "What? Of course not!" She hesitated, suddenly feeling foolish although she didn't know why. She had an odd liking for Anette and she felt like she had to say something to placate the young half-elf. And there was an obvious thing to say, but the words stuck in her throat.

Foolishness. She was proud of the fact that no man had ever subdued her, but also strangely embarrassed. "I, um, haven't done that before."

"Done what?" the half-elf asked innocently. Deneth's embarrassed expression must've been answer enough. "What, ever?" Anette exclaimed.

Deneth gave her a flat look.

"But you've wanted to, right?"

"Of course!"

"And you're just adorable, especially your eyes. I'm sure big strong grunts are crawling over each other to get to you."

Deneth wasn't quite sure what to think about being called adorable. "They do crawl over each other," she admitted. "I'd go to whoever was strong enough to take me from the others."

"So what's the problem?"

Deneth gave her a pointed look. "Just because a male is stronger than the others doesn't mean he's stronger than me."

The blood elf looked impressed. "No one's ever overpowered you before?"

That _did_ make her feel proud. "No."

"And they've tried?"

"Often and insistently. Even older males who would've gone for a more mature female who provided a better obstacle for them."

The blood elf gave a high-pitched whistle between pursed lips. "Wow. So Thrall didn't just send you on this mission for your looks."

Deneth tried to decide whether that was a compliment or an insult, and eventually settled on compliment.

Lucky for Anette.

.

"Let's slow down," Bravik called from behind them as the dim twilight in the woods began dropping into full dark. "We could probably still go a bit further, if Jin'zur guided us more closely, but we should eat something. Our muscles are still being strained, and we'll feel it when Clovis ends the chant."

Deneth nodded and dropped to a trot barely above a walk. She was familiar with eating at this pace, and easily managed to get into her pack for the handy food packets in the nearest pocket.

Anette also had food in hand, although Deneth hadn't seen her grab it. "Want some?" the girl asked, holding out a handful.

Deneth looked at the assortment of dried fruits and cracked grains drizzled with honey, frowning. It didn't even look like it had dairy in it, let alone anything really tempting. "That doesn't look appetizing at all."

Anette looked hurt. "_I_ like it," she said, popping the handful into her mouth. "It's most of what's in my pack. Why, what's in _your_ pack?"

She shrugged. "Jerky, marrow cakes, sausages. Pemmican."

The half-elf wrinkled her nose. "Pemmican? Isn't that like the boiled elk shit and hooves that taurens eat?"

Behind them one of the tauren sniffed loudly, and Anette immediately ran back to give Clovis a hug and apologize.

.

It was nearly midnight before Jin'zur admitted he didn't want to keep trying to navigate through the dense undergrowth at anything above a walk, so they might as well sleep. Delphine gave a throaty growl as if in agreement, although from the way her golden eyes glowed she probably saw as clearly as if it were daytime.

Deneth was only too happy to agree to stopping. The larger moon had set, she thought, and the smaller moon didn't give much light. She could barely see her hand in front of her face, and she'd felt like a blundering oaf for the last half hour or so, with the blood elves darting around as if they had a lynx's eyes and even the tauren moving gracefully for all their bulk.

That brought to mind uncomfortable thoughts of night elves, who saw better than any predator in the dark. They had made incredible time this day's march, enough to put them solidly in night elf territory. The war was still going on strong, although farther to the west, and they were north of where the supply lines traveled. Even so they could run into such enemies at any time. She was grateful for the presence of Delphine, who Jin'zur volunteered to stand first watch as they set a fire and ate a proper meal.

Clovis, her shoulders sagging wearily, waited until they'd selected a campsite and doffed their packs before finally, with a groan of relief, stopped her chant.

Immediately Deneth felt as if every single part of her legs, buttocks, and hips had been fiercely beaten with sticks for an entire day. Her shoulders and back also joined in the chorus of complaints. It took all her willpower to stay on her feet. Off to one side Nova yelped and fell flat on his back, starting to curl up slightly before whimpering in pain and laying still. Anette dropped into a fetal position and began sucking her thumb, a single tear leaking out from dark, wide-open eyes.

Bravik and Clovis settled into squats around the fire Jin'zur still worked to build. None of them looked at all the worse for wear.

"Deneth, dear," Clovis said quietly. "You should sit down before you topple over."

Deneth growled defiantly at the accusation of weakness, then her legs gave out and she found herself sprawled atop her pack. She could barely move her arms to push her into a sitting position, but her legs wouldn't respond at all.

"It'll get better in an hour or so, after we've eaten," Bravik promised. "Especially if Clovis will favor us with more firewater."

"I'd prefer ice water," she heard Nova mutter. "False gods above, it burns." Anette pulled herself over beside her guardian/lover and sprawled across his chest, whimpering.

The tauren were right, though. Once they'd all had a swallow from Clovis's flask, a few handfuls of rations from their packs, and shared a few bites of meat from the brace of hares Jin'zur had shot, Deneth felt the burning fade into that sweet ache that came after a good day of practice. The conversation had been light, mostly about the next day's travel and some goodnatured grumbling about various aches and pains. But in one lull the silence was broken by an uncomfortable clearing of throat.

Bravik Windhoof shifted to get their attention, solemn eyes on the blood elf pair across the fire. "I feel I should say something, little sister," he said to Anette.

"Oh no, nothing good is ever said after something like that." Anette hid behind Nova's shoulder, peeking out at the druid with big eyes. "What did I do?"

The tauren cleared his throat uncomfortably again, voice coming out in an uncomfortable rumble. "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation earlier. Logically, in my mind I know that you're past the age of consent. And that you are a strong and independent young woman, every bit as much as Deneth. Yet even so your diminutive stature, even for one of your kind, and your childlike appearance and actions make your behavior with Master Nova seem . . . troubling." Bravik shifted in embarrassment. "My protective instincts trigger, and I wonder if you are being taken advantage of."

To Deneth's surprise Anette leapt up and vaulted the fire, throwing her arms as far around the surprised tauren as she could manage and burying her head against his shoulder. Even sitting down Bravik was taller than the tiny half-elf. He stiffened in embarrassment.

"You're just the best, big brother," she said. "Nobody's ever said anything that sweet to me in my life."

The tauren awkwardly patted her back. "I, um, feel a certain fondness for you," he rumbled.

Anette pulled back enough to look in his eyes. "Oh and I like you too," she said. "But you don't have to worry about me and Hiezal. He's not taking advantage of me since I'm the one who suggested it in the first place. In fact, he was very uncomfortable with the idea and I had to be _very_ insistent before he finally agreed."

"Like mother like daughter," Nova murmured.

Anette gave Bravik a last squeeze and then danced around the fire to plop into Nova's lap. She may have looked childlike, but the kiss she gave the older elf was decidedly adult. "Oh don't," she said, jutting her lower lip out in a pout. "Do you always have to bring her up?"

"Bring who up?" Nova asked innocently.

The tiny half-elf beamed and gave him another kiss. "We're making Bravik uncomfortable, the sweetie. He won't be uncomfortable if we go to bed, will he?"

Nova unfolded from the ground, somehow keeping hold of Anette as he straightened. "You're probably right. Goodnight, fellow companions."

Anette was wrong about Bravik, though. After the two elves disappeared into their tent the noises they made kept him looking decidedly uncomfortable. Deneth had witnessed dozens of matings, but for some reason this situation and the tauren's discomfort made her feel uncomfortable too.

It seemed to have infected everyone around the fire. "Dis be why ya don't open ya mouth, mon," Jin'zur grumbled. "Blood elves jus' be even more outrageous when ya let dem know dey have an audience."

Deneth excused herself to her own sleeping roll shortly afterwards. Being around so many different races and seeing how differently they behaved, and even thought, was confusing and surprisingly troubling for her.

She'd been in campaigns with the other vassal races numerous times, particularly in Northrend. But then she'd always fought beside the Dak'Terror alongside companies of the other races. There had rarely been much mingling between the various camps, and especially the blood elves had kept to themselves. Without really spending time with them it'd been easy to pretend they shared similar notions of honor and morality with the orcs.

But it was becoming more and more obvious they didn't. She knew she couldn't expect them to adhere to the Orcish code of honor any more than they could expect her to act like their race. But how could each race have a different view of what was honorable? Honor was absolute, it either was or wasn't, and those who weren't honorable were dishonorable. Each race had its own honor, but that didn't mean that acting according to that code was honorable for their race, did it? So what was honorable for an elf would be dishonorable for a tauren.

Or did it? Did each race have its own honor, perfectly right for them? If so how could different races hope to interact without giving offense and dishonor?

Her father would've said to respect the honor of each race as well as she could, but never at the expense of Orcish ways.

But what about when that was impossible?

Across the clearing the noises finally stopped, and shortly afterwards Anette ducked out of the tent, flushed and disheveled and wearing a filmy sleeping robe. To Deneth's surprise the girl came over and plopped down on her blankets, resting her head on Deneth's shoulder.

"Bravik was so nice, don't you think?" she asked. "He said I was like you, big sister. And that's the best compliment I can think of."

Deneth lay still in her blankets, frowning. Orcs weren't uncomfortable with physical closeness, but as a rule they weren't affectionate, either. Even the children soon learned to keep their distance. So she wasn't quite sure what to do in this situation.

So she decided she'd try to settle her uneasy thoughts by asking some questions.

.

The next morning Nova sauntered over to her as she was packing up her things.

"Have a good girl talk with Anette last night?" he asked cheerfully, taking a huge bite of his apple. "Did you play "Never Have I Ever" or "Truth or Dare?"

Deneth calmly straightened and slung her pack over her shoulders. "You, elf, are filth," she said flatly. Without giving him time to respond she shoved past him, giving him a solid elbow that sent him staggering, and started down the path.

"The fuck did I do?" Nova asked behind her. Deneth turned to see that he was talking to Anette.

The half-elf grinned at her, then at him. "Me."

After they started out once more, Jin'zur again disappearing ahead to scout, Deneth had hoped to be left alone to her thoughts. Unfortunately Nova seemed to instinctively guess at her discomfort around him and almost immediately went out of his way to talk to her.

"So do orcs ever polish their helmets?" he asked casually.

Deneth blinked. "Of course. We take good care of our gear."

For some reason the blood elf smirked. "Have _you_ ever helped an orc polish his helmet?"

This conversation was confusing her, and she had a sneaking suspicion what he was saying and what she was hearing were two different things. "Sometimes, if he's not doing it properly."

The blood elf burst out laughing, only to dance away with yelps of pain as a tiny black-haired ball of fury began chasing after him with furious slaps.

"Sorry about that," Anette said, coming to walk beside her once Nova was far, far away. He kept his distance. "Hiezal has no manners at all sometimes."

"What exactly was he saying?"

The half-elf smirked. "Helmet is a euphemism for male genetalia. Polishing the helmet implies autoerotic activities."

Deneth frowned in distaste. "Is it common for your people to masturbate?" Among orcs such activities probably took place, but they certainly weren't bragged about. For males it was as good as saying they couldn't overpower a female, and for females that no male thought them a worthy mate.

Sure, she had been tempted to indulge in such behavior when her frustration at being unable to find a male strong enough for her grew too great. But how could a warrior expect to become powerful if she couldn't even discipline her own dishonorable impulses?

"It's common for my people to do just about everything," Anette said cheerfully. Then she giggled. "And a lot of what we do is definitely _not_ common."

Gritting her teeth, Deneth slowed to let the two tauren catch up to her. "The plainsrunning chant drains you," she said to Clovis. "Will you be able to keep it up?"

The tauren nodded without answering, her expression grimly determined as she continued her rumbling words.

Bravik rested a protective hand on the smaller tauren's shoulders. "Clovis's tribe wandered far before the centaur attacks threatened our people with extinction. As we fled her family kept us ahead of the swifter centaurs, their chants led by the Grassrunner matriarch. I've scarcely met a stronger or more determined female." His expression abruptly saddened. "Alas that those who run best are constantly given reason to flee."

Clovis looked away sadly as well, but didn't so much as pause in her chant.

Deneth reached the logical conclusion. "She was at Taurajo."

Bravik sighed. "We both were. A needless tragedy. It seems that since the centaurs first began their marauding our race has been beset by unending, needless tragedies."

Deneth was surprised. "Part of the Warchief's reason for invading Ashenvale was to pressure the Alliance into leaving the tauren be. The atrocities at Taurajo angered us all."

Bravik frowned, large brown eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "The atrocities committed by the Alliance at Camp Taurajo have been exaggerated by our Warchief. Possibly for propaganda purposes. I was there in the immediate aftermath."

Deneth was surprised. "Are you saying that the Alliance was blameless in the attack?"

The bull tauren snorted. "Hardly. The humans have loudly and vehemently insisted they let noncombatants flee to safety, but that's not strictly true. For one thing the Alliance forces there were undisciplined and brutal. I later learned the bulk of that army was made up of former convicts of the Stormwind stockades. They slew many while taking the camp, and cut down some of those who fled. Ostensibly the Alliance commander executed all those who'd disobeyed his orders. But it was to protect the Alliance's virtuous image, not in pursuit of true justice."

She glanced over at Clovis, then back at Bravik. "You seem to know a lot of what the Alliance says and does."

"Our Chieftain keeps contact with the humans of Theramore," the druid said with an awkward shift of his shoulders. Embarrassed about consorting with the enemy? "Like Thrall, Baine struggled long to keep the peace, and keeps up that struggle still."

"Then Baine accepts the explanation the humans offered for their actions at Camp Taurajo?" Deneth asked in disbelief.

"He listens," Clovis said quietly. Deneth's pace flagged as she spoke. "He does not accept."

Bravik nodded. "His eyes were open, as are mine. It is hard not to notice that the direction the humans herded the fleeing Taurajo civilians was directly towards the territory of hostile quillboars. As if they were trying to indirectly kill our people and blame the slaughter on the pig men."

Deneth nodded slowly. "My father has always said that half of human honor is about protecting their goodly image, and the other half seems intent on imposing their ideas of justice on others."

"Perhaps," Bravik said. "Our contacts with humans have been few, and always beset with the mistrust of being on the opposite side of this damnable conflict. But long experience with the centaurs has taught us to avoid needless aggression."

Deneth stiffened. "What are you suggesting?"

Bravik leaned over to rest a heavy hand on her shoulder. "That we love our wild brothers and sisters the orcs," he rumbled. "But we do not always agree with them."

With a growl she shook his hand away and picked up her pace, moving forward until she was at the edge of where Clovis's chant affected her.

Needless aggression? The tauren had a rich land in Mulgore, blocked away from enemies on all sides with only one strongly fortified entrance. And Thunder Bluff on its mesa was nearly impregnable. To add to that the tauren had a far broader range of foodstuffs they could eat, making foraging an easier task. She didn't begrudge her allies there safety or prosperity, but they couldn't understand what those dwelling on the brink of starvation in Orgrimmar must suffer.

She would just have to convince them.

.

For nearly two weeks they traveled through night elf lands, the plainsrunning chant letting them set a pace swifter than the most brutal Deneth had ever marched on campaign, and with far less toll on their strength and endurance. Hyjal was actually far closer to Orgrimmar than they had to travel, but because it, like so many regions in Azeroth, was encircled by impassable mountains they had to travel all the way around that barrier.

And so they ate the miles beneath them through northern Ashenvale along the Hyjal range, east and then north into Felwood, where they hugged the eastern borders of that territory. The tauren had heard whispers of passes that led into Hyjal from Felwood, smaller and more secret than the main pass by which the night elf armies marched. But they didn't know where, or how to find them.

It was here that Bravik, like his fellow tauren, proved his worth. The druid spent long days of travel shapeshifted into a mesa eagle, flying high overhead scouting for the needed pass. Without him they couldn't have hoped to find it, but even with his efforts it was eluding them.

The party's spirits sank the farther they went. Bravik's scouting was returning news of night elf signs farther north, forcing them to the conclusion that they were nearing the main pass the suzh'algez used. They had agreed that they'd approach the guardians there if needed, hoping to their tabards and their neutrality for safe passage. But better to enter Hyjal itself and make directly for Ysera the Dreamer and petition for her indulgence.

Deneth's spirits sank lower than the others during that time. All seemed to have some useful purpose here. Jin'zur's scouting kept them safe and hidden, and already he'd led them out of a dozen potential conflicts. Clovis kept their pace swift and tireless so they could be where they were needed in time, and Bravik was the only one who could swiftly scout the high mountain cliffs and passes for their trail.

Even the blood elves served their purpose. Anette was constantly going from one to another, showering them with affection, soothing any ruffles or minor arguments that arose, and lightening all their hearts with her nonstop chatter. Regardless of Deneth's initial complaints about the girl carrying her own weight, before a week had passed she was seen as often on someone's back or shoulders as on the ground. In fact Deneth carried her more often than the others.

And while Nova continued to needle her, Deneth was surprised to find that everyone else liked the irritating blond-haired, blue eyed rogue. Even Jin'zur laughed at his banter, and while Clovis remained somewhat shy Nova seemed to have a soft spot in his heart for the softspoken cow tauren, and as far as Deneth could tell he never teased and taunted her the way he did Deneth herself.

She could always tell when the blood elf was specifically trying to rile her with his crudity. He had a way of glancing at her slyly, his lips quirking in a not quite smile.

Like he was doing now, even as he pretended to talk to Jin'zur about their encounters with dwarves. "Oh yeah. I did a tour of some dwarvish dig sites, once. They had lots of valuabl-" he cut off hastily. "Ahem. I mean it was a really fascinating study into the ancient history of Azeroth. I got a good bit of enjoyment out of Grimeslit."

Jin'zur snorted, although Deneth didn't get the joke. It was certainly aimed at her, though.

Anette obviously did. "That's Grime_silt_, dummy. In Searing Gorge, right? Get your names straight. For a moment there I thought you were talking about Mother."

At this the troll threw back his head and laughed. But surprisingly the usually easygoing Nova didn't look amused. "Now now, Anette, what did we agree on about your mother?"

The tiny blood elf threw out a lush lower lip in a pout. "Not to badmouth her womanly attributes," she said sullenly as if she were reciting a memorized rule.

Nova nodded in satisfaction. "Right. Anything else about her is fair game."

Deneth wasn't sure what that was about. Anette talked nonstop about her years growing up, her time in Stormwind and Dalaran and Silvermoon and how Nova had been there for most of it. The adventures the two of them had shared seemed to impossible to be true, mostly since they involved people constantly trying to kill Anette. Deneth could understand people wanting to kill Nova, but who would ever want to target the half-elf?

In all that time, though, neither of them had so much as mentioned Anette's mother. Although when Deneth asked they'd admitted she lived and had been a part of the girl's life.

Anette folded her arms grumpily. "You know, the way you mope about Mother sometimes I think the only reason you're with me is because I'm a younger, cuter version and you can't have her."

A look of panic briefly crossed Nova's features.

"Our orc disapproves," Nova said quickly. From the way his eyes had been darting around beforehand it was obvious he'd been looking for a way to change the subject.

Anette immediately lost her pout and came over to throw her arms around Deneth. "I'm sorry," she said, forcing Deneth to meet an innocent, childlike gaze. Big dark eyes batted at her hopefully. "You still love me, right?"

Deneth gently but firmly pushed the young mage away. "You two are very confusing when you talk about sex. Please keep me out of it."

"But how can I keep you out when I so much want you to let me in?" Nova asked.

Before Deneth could unlimber Render for an eloquent reply she heard Delphine give a warning yowl up ahead.

"Heartsblood wasted," Jin'zur snarled, eyes darting ahead. He had an obsidian-headed arrow nocked almost quicker than Deneth could follow. "Bravik betelling us dis area secure."

They didn't have to search hard for the threat. Almost on the tail of Delphine's warning a score of night elves melted out of the undergrowth ahead, forming up on the top of a low rise. To reach them the group would have to run up a steep, rocky slope.

Deneth would've drawn her throwing axes, but Anette had already rushed to Jin'zur and shoved his bow aside. "Remember what Uncle Thrall said," she hissed. "Fighting means a failed mission!"

Deneth lifted her hands slowly from her weapons. She'd expected sentinels, but only one of the night elves who came out of the trees to confront them was dressed in sentinel armor. It was also a surprise to see them leave the trees at all, since six had bows and night elves never squandered the element of surprise.

"What do you do in our lands, Horde affiliates?" a male demanded harshly once he became aware they intended no violence. "Why do you wear the tabard of the Guardians of Hyjal as if you deserve that honor?"

Deneth motioned for her companions to step back. Jin'zur was the only one among them with a ranged weapon, and his single bow would be little help against six enemy archers, especially in this clearing where the enemy had the high ground.

Besides, Anette had made very clear their purpose, in case any of them could forget. "We've come to lend our weapons to the defense of Hyjal. Our enemies are fire elementals and Twilight cultists, same as you." She hesitated. "Chieftain Thrall was to have sent word ahead of our coming to avoid misunderstandings. You haven't heard from him?"

For some reason the night elf looked amused. "No. But if you're here to aid us we welcome your strength." He motioned to his own people and weapons were hastily put away. "I am Alrandel Darkshadow. My companions and I are Vigilants of the Whispering Wood."

Deneth relaxed slightly. "Deneth Limbrender. My companions and I are champions of the Horde, representative of our races to the Alliance and neutral parties."

Alrandel nodded, still amused. "Tensions among my people are high at the moment, Lady Limbrender. We'll travel with you to Hyjal to avoid further . . . misunderstandings."

That was an unexpected development, traveling with their enemies. The idea made Deneth uncomfortable. But at the same time that was what they were here for, wasn't it? To put aside the war between the Horde and Alliance and aid in the defense of Azeroth? How would it look to arrive there ready to help after wading through a sea of night elf blood to get there?

"We appreciate the escort," she said formally. "These lands are unfamiliar to us." If they had an escort that meant Bravik no longer needed to scout their way over the mountains. And they no longer had to worry about a hostile reception farther north. This was a good development, the best she could've hoped for.

So why did her hackles refuse to settle? Was it merely being in the presence of an enemy she'd recently spent weeks battling?

As if everything was all settled Anette darted towards the group of sentinels, throwing her arms around one of the surprised archers. "Hello, cousin," she said. "You're really tall!"

The night elf bowwoman looked nonplussed. "What is this?" she asked her companions helplessly.

Anette kept right on going, voice happy. "Of course you're really pretty too. I love how you braided your hair!" Without waiting for a response she began going around hugging the others just as enthusiastically, giving them each a compliment of their own. None looked any less surprised and uncomfortable than the first.

Deneth fought the urge to press her palm to her forehead. Well, her father had said one of the reasons the half-elf was with them was to ease tensions between Alliance and Horde.

Alrandel fended off the tiny half elf's efforts and came over to stand beside Deneth, looking to the mountains ahead. "Burn me, I'll admit aid from the Horde is a surprise. We hadn't been expecting it. It'll change our plans. Ah well, the flame that roars to sudden life can still warm you pleasantly in the cold." He glanced back as if searching for an army. "Where's the rest of your force?"

The question made Deneth feel strangely embarrassed. After all, their push through Ashenvale had slaughtered thousands of night elves. Couldn't sending only half a dozen warriors to aid in Hyjal be considered an insult? "We're all that could be spared at the moment."

Alrandel _hmm_ed to himself, looking surprised. "Well, I wouldn't have expected much, but this certainly puts the "token" in token force." He looked suddenly restless, almost eager, and looked around their two mingling groups in appraisal. Then his eyes fell on Render and he paused. "We should move," he said abruptly. "Get some distance under our feet before we set our campfires for the night."

Deneth nodded. "We need to be in Hyjal as quickly as we can. We set a strong pace with the aid of our shaman, but we haven't found a way over the mountains yet."

The night elf smiled widely. "You're in luck. I happen to know one that even Malfurion himself isn't aware of. A new way opened by the Cataclsym." He turned and bowed to Clovis. "I'm unfamiliar with shamans, lady, but if you can speed us on our way by all means."

Ten minutes later, in a turn of events Deneth would've called impossible, she found herself running peacefully beside her enemies. There'd been no talk of disarming, no threats for treachery. If all night elves were this pathetically desperate to avoid violence it explained much.

"Your people seem strangely relaxed about the battles that just took place in Ashenvale," Deneth said, hoping she wasn't offending the night elf. "In previous engagements the Alliance has always been bitter after any conflict, eager for retribution."

Alrandel shrugged. "Greater good, right? We night elves seem to understand that better than anyone else, represented by our Shando Stormrage." Mention of that name seemed to anger the night elf, and his lips twisted around it. "We'd kind of have to understand it to still be looking at true threats after just getting raped from behind by your people."

"What of the fate of your sentinels in the conflict?"

The night elf shot her a sharp glance, then shrugged again, amused smile returning. "People die in battle. Can't let the fires of passion burn through reason or necessity."

"You'd let the insult of their deaths pass as if it were nothing?" Deneth demanded, aghast.

"Misguided honor blinds us to the truth of things. It prompts us to reckless, unthinking action. I prefer to accept reality."

Deneth clenched her fists at her sides. It was hard to remember her orders, her own honor in swearing to keep the peace, in the face of such an insult to everything she believed in.

But then it was her people who had offered the insult, and the night elves who her weak in ignoring it. Did it make sense to be insulted by their refusal to be insulted? "Peace may not be possible," she said, "but we will protect Hyjal for the sake of Azeroth."

Alrandel laughed long and loud, and a few of the other night elves who'd been listening in joined him. "I've lived seven thousand, three hundred and sixteen years, orc," he said. "There is no peace, only the lull in the breeze before the conflagration of war sweeps two enemies together once more."

"You can trust us," Deneth said through gritted teeth. "On my honor."

The night elf's eyes danced, like flickering flames darting up from dying coals. "Oh yes, girl. And you can trust us as well. In the name of Fandral Staghelm I swear it."

There didn't seem much else to say. Deneth could think of nothing to talk about with these creatures who'd been her enemies, and they didn't seem interested in conversation either. Anette talked to them nonstop, of course, and even got a back ride from the tall, lean sentinel. And unsurprisingly Nova spent the rest of the day trying to convince any or all of the night elves to mate with him. He even solicited Alrandel, much to Deneth's disgust.

Bravik hadn't returned by the time they set up camp. Farther afield than usual, Deneth assumed. She fell asleep listening to the crackle of the unusually large fire the night elves kept, waiting to hear the slow, heavy beat of wings signaling the druid's return.

.

Deneth woke from uneasy dreams when a heavy weight crashed atop her, accompanied by the gurgling sounds of dying. Her eyes snapped open to see the sentinel sprawled across her torso, twitching as her life's blood seeped from her slit throat. Then the twitching stopped.

Deneth stared at the still form, blood seeping into her blankets. Above her another shape loomed, and she stiffened in alarm until the flickering light of the dying fire revealed Nova. "What's going on?" she demanded.

For once Nova didn't seem amused. "What is it about cultists and killing you while you sleep?" he muttered, kicking the body off Deneth. "I hate them all."

Without another word he melted into the shadows, knives dripping with blood in either hand.

"Awake the camp!" a male Orcish voice bellowed. "Treachery in our midst!"

Deneth finally shook free of sleep and shock and fumbled for Render, slung over her pack where she'd left it last night. She'd barely got it in hand when two figures melted out of the night, diving not for her but for Jin'zur at her side. The troll was gurgling and jerking in his blankets, heavy black blood seeping from a wound in his throat even as it closed. Off in the night Delphine yowled.

With a snarl Deneth vaulted over the injured troll and shoved Render's haft at the nearest elf's face. The suzh'algez managed to drop beneath the blow, but Deneth still smashed into her with more than two hundred and fifty pounds of armored orc. They went down together, and she heard more than felt a harsh _scrape_ against her shoulderplate as the other night elf's dagger scraped against it, missing a hastily aimed thrust for her face.

After a moment of flailing Deneth managed to get one leg beneath her, and rose just enough to lift Render and slam the end of its haft into the elf's face. Her struggling assailant went still, freeing her to twist and whip her axe around to parry the knife once again sinking towards her face. Render bit into a slender forearm, failing to completely sever the limb but snapping the bone with a sharp _crack_. The night elf staggered back, clutching his ruined arm to his chest, and Deneth lunged after him and buried her axe in his chest. Without missing a beat she yanked it free, spun, and slammed it down into her dazed first assailant. Then she hacked down at her again, just to be sure.

A cry of agony turned her in time to see Clovis, water gushing around her from nowhere, drop to the ground with a burning scorpion's tale buried in her hip. As she watched in helpless rage the fiery scorpion scuttled on top of the thrashing tauren and closed one wicked claw around her throat, stopping Clovis's screams with brutal finality.

Deneth roared and charged across the clearing towards the murderous creature, but three night elves stood between her and the scorpion. The farthest one back lifted a heavy bow, broadhead arrow already on the string, and at her cry the other two stepped aside to clear the shot.

Deneth skidded, trying to think of some way to avoid a shaft loosed from such a close range, but before the elf could shoot a tiny form appeared behind her. Steel glinted in the firelight, severing the bowstring, and the surprised night elf barely had time to take a step sideways before the figure leaned up on tiptoes, touched the night elf's face, and set it on fire.

Deneth closed the distance on the final two night elves. Neither one was a sentinel, nor were they the formidable, heavily armored huntresses that stalked the grounds of these woods or rode nightsabers. Unarmored, bearing nothing more than a dagger for one and a short sword for the other, Deneth still felt like she was swinging at air as she pursued them. She begrudged her helmet, sitting innocently in its place by her pack, as the sword left a deep, painful cut along her left temple down to nick her ear.

A deafening screech that turned into a roar halfway through turned her eyes to the scene behind the two night elves. The scorpion had been skittering towards the tiny shape who'd just finishing burying her knife in the archer's eye socket when a bear dropped out of the sky and fell with the full force of its weight atop the burning creature. Deneth hadn't seen Bravik shapeshifted into the form of a bear before, but she was certain that was who she was looking at.

A brief glimpse was all she had time for, and then she was swept back into her fight with the two agile elves. Around her she had vague impressions of other shapes fighting, and the _twang_ of a bowstring that didn't accompany any arrows impaling her or her allies suggested that Jin'zur's amazing troll regenerative abilities had him up and in the action again.

One of those arrows buried into the stomach of the swordsman she faced, and Render came only a second behind, flying over the dropped guard to bury in the night elf's head. She ripped her axe free and whirled to see the other night elf turning to flee, right into a tiny dark-cloaked figure that hopped up high enough to slam a gleaming dagger into his neck.

Deneth started in surprise, staring at the tiny half-elf. She'd been twenty feet away not five seconds ago. "Where did you come from?" she demanded, looking around to make sure no more enemies were coming. Aside from her allies everyone was down.

Anette gave a cheerful smile. "Stormwind. It's been awhile, though."

"I mean just barely. I thought mages weren't very sneaky."

"What is it about a group of people who hangs back, avoiding danger and trying not to be noticed while casting some of the most eye-catching spells on the battlefield, that suggests we're not sneaky?"

Deneth gritted her teeth. "Stealthy, then. Mages usually aren't very stealthy."

The half-elf shrugged. "Why not? How else would I keep up with Hiezal?"

Deneth blinked. "You follow him around during battle?"

"Sure, why not?"

"You're in the thick of the fighting! I thought mages needed to be able to concentrate on casting spells."

Anette gave another shrug, tiny shoulders nearly slipping out of her wide-necked nightshirt.

Deneth looked at the girl in disbelief. "You have all the power of the arcane at your fingertips and you resort to dirty tricks?"

The girl beamed at her like she'd been given a compliment. "Well yeah, look who taught me."

With a dubious nod Deneth began looking around, a sudden thought striking her. Seeing it Anette skipped over and hugged her, getting blood all over hair that was inky black in the darkness. "If you're looking for more that's all," she said happily.

"No, that's not it. I heard an orc yelling the call to arms."

The tiny girl giggled, pulling away but still keeping hold of Deneth's hand. "That was me. I figured our companions would get what was happening faster if it was an orc shouting the warning instead of an elf." She screwed up her features into what might've been an impression of an orc, and her voice became deep and guttural. "To arms, my warriors! Drive these cowards from our camp!"

Deneth shook her head grimly. "It should've been an orc shouting the warning. I failed the group."

"Don't worry, that's what I'm here for," Nova said, abruptly appearing at her side. Deneth was so startled the smiling blood elf almost got an axe to the face.

"What, failing the group?" Anette teased.

Nova flushed. "No! I meant I'm here to pay . . . oh forget it."

Deneth stared around at the scattering of corpses. She'd killed what, three, maybe four out of twenty. Jin'zur had been down for most of it, and Bravik had just arrived to battle the scorpion, while Clovis . . . "You killed all these?" she asked Nova.

The blood elf gave her an incredulous look. "Are you kidding? Taken by surprise and fighting for less than three minutes? I'm good, but I'm not that good. Anette got about half."

Her eyes darted to the half-elf girl smiling innocently next to them. Quite a few of the night elves had small burns and fissures from spells, but nothing serious. "What? None of these night elves took fatal wounds from magic."

The blood elf chuckled, looking at his lover fondly. "Yeah, well Anette is a lot more . . . hands on than other mages."

Anette nodded soberly. "Concentrating is annoying. I'd rather just use spells I can cast instantly. If I hit someone in the face it doesn't matter how much I actually hurt him, cause he'll be distracted long enough for me to knife him. Oh look, Bravik finally got Alrandel."

Deneth whirled to see the fiery scorpion pinned to the ground. Even as she looked the burning shape shifted into the form of a night elf, struggling to pull himself out from between the bear's heavy claws. Bravik gave a bellow and reared, both forelegs snapping down, and the work he did with those wicked claws put Render to shame.

"Clovis you silly silly," Anette shouted, darting over to the still form off to one side of the burning circle where the two druids had fought. "Bravik got him, so you can finally get . . . up . . ." The tiny half elf gave a cry of grief and tugged at the motionless tauren, with some effort pulling her around onto her back. In that position they could all see her torn neck and the charred, festering wound in her hip.

Deneth looked away, even as Jin'zur and Nova exchanged glances and slipped back to ensure all the others were dead.

Bravik, shifting into a scorched and singed tauren form, limped over to his companion's still body and dropped heavily beside her. "Alrandel was a Druid of the Flames, subservient to Ragnaros the Firelord," he said quietly. "I'd only heard of them before now, but the evidence is clear. Only those fallen druids assume the scorpion's form."

Deneth trod forward to pay her respects to the fallen shaman. It made no sense to feel guilty, since death came to all and sooner to those on the battlefield. Deneth had fought as well as she could, as had Clovis. Just not well enough.

But now she felt even more useless than she had before. The blood elves had been vigilant and raised the cry, saving her life. Bravik had defeated the terrible burning druid. Jin'zur had been blameless, wounded before the fight had even begun.

But Deneth had been a fool. Her instincts had warned her not to trust the night elves, and yet she'd slept in their presence. Orcs led the Horde, and she should've been leader and example both to this group. Instead she was little more than dead weight, even her few paltry victories in killing enemies overshadowed by others.

Jin'zur and Nova came over to stand beside the body as well, Nova standing beside his ward in comforting silence.

"I don't want her to be dead," Anette said in a small voice. "She was so sweet."

"Death comes to warriors," Nova replied, resting a hand on her shoulder.

The tiny half-elf shrugged it away angrily. "It shouldn't have!" she snapped. "Not when I can stop it. I swear no more of the people I care about will die!" Deneth was surprised the half-elf could blame herself after all she'd done. Why wasn't anyone blaming Deneth?

The blood elf's expression tightened. "Even the most powerful heroes would find that promise hard to keep, sweetheart. I'd know better than most of the truth of that. I've seen good men try. And fail."

Anette surged to her feet and ran away, sobbing.

Against her better judgment Deneth followed, angry without knowing why. She found the girl huddled between a large tree's twisting roots, knees drawn up to her chin.

"How can you be so sad about Clovis's death?" Deneth demanded. "Why do you care? She died in glorious combat on the battlefield."

Anette looked at her sadly, not seeming hurt or insulted by her words. "I wish she would've lived to die old and happy with little calves all around her. I love her."

"Why? You just met her!"

"How can you not love everyone you meet?" Anette asked. "I mean think about it. They're all looking through their own eyes and seeing something different than you see. They think different thoughts than you think, drawing from different memories than you remember. Just try to imagine every single person you meet and what it is they're seeing and thinking and wanting and feeling. It's amazing!"

Deneth shifted uncomfortably. She'd never thought anything like that before. "I don't know if I could."

The tiny half-elf leaned forward, hands clasped to her chest. "You should _try_. How can you appreciate something if you don't try to understand it? And how can you love something if you don't appreciate and understand it? I look at all the people in the world and I think of all the ways they've been hurt and they hurt others, and it just makes me want to cry thinking that none of it needs to happen."

True to her words, tears were openly dripping from the half-elf's huge, dark eyes. Deneth couldn't think of a single time she'd shed a tear for any reason besides harsh conditions like cold or dryness or the sun's glare. Even intense pain usually just made her angry.

What a strange creature this half-elf was. But even strange as she was Deneth couldn't think of her as weak or pathetic. There was a simple sincerity to Anette that didn't seem to care what anyone else thought. For Deneth, who'd spent most of her life basing all her actions on how they would be viewed and what honor or contempt they would bring on her and her family, the idea was strangely frightening.

"What about all the cultists you killed tonight?"

Her face crumpled. "Why?" she said plaintively. "What choice did I have when they wanted to kill my friends? Just because I had to doesn't make it any less sad."

Deneth honestly couldn't imagine killing because you had to, but not wanting to. The notion was completely alien to her. She'd grown up with her father and Dek'Terror telling tales of glorious combat, and the noise of battle, the screams and the stink of blood and death, the feel of her axe tearing through an enemy, were exciting companions.

Anette stood up, the blood on her nightshirt looking oddly savage. Without a word she buried her head in Deneth's hip, hugging her. "Clovis loved you," she whispered. "She loved all of us. She barely knew us but she loved us. Isn't it only fair that we love her back?"


	10. Reunion

Hey all.

Thanks to those of you who so quickly welcomed me back after I've been gone so long. As fond as I am of the story, and as much as I enjoy writing it, you're the reason I keep going.

NT

Chapter Nine

Reunion

Drazgh looked over the waiting fleet, impressed in spite of himself. "All right, Blitwhistle," he said slowly, circling the closest light fighter, which was waiting with its wings folded in and its propellers motionless. "How about you level with me. You're fond of saying there are three factors to a job."

The goblin overseer nodded impatiently. "Yeah yeah yeah, no need to teach me my own lessons. You can do the job fast, do it cheap, or do it well. Pick one. If you're really lucky you can get two of the three. Anyone offering you all three is swindling you."

"And yet here's this fleet. In spite of budget cutbacks you completed it on time. Fast and cheap. Does this mean the quality suffered heavily?"

The goblin grinned broadly, breaking from his usual serious exterior. "Nah, I found a brilliant workaround. Best deal ever."

Drazgh waited, eyes narrowed.

Blitwhistle looked around conspiratorially, then leaned in. "There's these fools in the Horde, right? They think they're heroes or something. They wander around looking for glory or honor or wealth or who the hell knows, but they do it in the stupidest way possible.

"So whenever one of these numskulls comes around looking to make a name or whatever I have one of my taskmasters talk 'em up. Lavish praise on them and call them the Horde's finest and say we'd be lost without them. Then I get them to do the type of tasks even peons would balk at and they go out and _do_ them. And the craziest thing is some of these so-called heroes actually know how to stay alive, so they manage to complete the dangerous jobs without me having to fork out death benefits or hazard pay. They're a goldmine of cheap labor and the idiots never complain!"

Drazgh frowned. "Never? What do they get out of it?"

Blitwhistle shrugged. "Bit of silver, sometimes. Useless broken junk that nobody else would ever pay for," he abruptly cackled. "Oh yeah, there was this one time when I actually had some of these "heroes" out sifting through kodo shit looking for a key I supposedly dropped. It was the most hilarious thing ever. And the funniest thing was that even though they were getting pissed off they kept on doing it, cursing up a storm all the while. I finally had to take pity on them and hide a key. One of Sogsprickles, of course . . . I sure wasn't touching anything that'd been in kodo shit."

"And by utilizing the labor of these gullible fools you completed the tasks below budget?"

"Exactly that. I should start a business completely catered around exploiting their misguided enthusiasm. I'd hit the highest final tally any goblin's reached in a century."

"And were these heroes of yours qualified for the work you had them do?" Drazgh asked pointedly.

The goblin gave him a shifty look. Or at least shiftier. "Hey nah, nothing like that. They did the useless stuff that freed up goblin labor for tasks that required real skill and finesse. Our workmen still slaved like dogs getting everything done in time. Garrosh breathing down our necks for results and Kor'kron standing around with axes waiting to punish screwups is tremendously motivating. We did you a rare job with this fleet, did the impossible I tell you. Cheap, fast, and quality. All three factors, no sweat."

Drazgh did his best to hide is satisfaction. It was rare to talk one of these shifty little creatures into a corner. Something to be savored. "Then how come you sent a letter to Bilgewater Cartel asking for clarification on some of the finer points regarding claiming death benefits?"

The goblin managed to hide his panic. "Hey what're you suggesting? You know me, I like to cover every angle."

_Yes, and you manage it by being crooked enough_. Drazgh pinned the goblin with a stern look. "I've been looking over the contract again. There are some regrettable oversights in it, which isn't too surprising since it was you who drafted it and a peon-brained clerk of Thrall's who signed for us. My hands are tied when it comes to your results with this fleet, but I'll be bearing down on you every second of the negotiations for further business dealings."

Blitwhistle grinned and nodded happily. "Glad to hear it. Always know what you're getting into, General."

"All right then. Let's talk about your bonus for completing the contract on time."

The diminutive green creature suddenly became _very_ interested. "Hey, glad to see our hard work is getting noticed. Yeah sure, let's talk about the bonus."

"Good." Drazgh abruptly stopped his circling inspection. Rivets missing, plates warped and showing gaps in some places. Quality certainly seemed to have suffered, and he hoped it was only cosmetic. He dropped into a squat to look at Blitwhistle as close to eye to eye as possible. "_If_ this fleet makes it to Twilight Highlands intact, with no major screwups or mechanical failures, I will pay you an extra one daraik for each airship and one shivna for each escort plane. Pending the taking of spoils in the war effort there."

"All right, all right," the goblin said, rubbing his hands together. "Now that's the kind of bonus you could've told us about two weeks ago. We would've enjoyed killing ourselves reaching the deadline instead of suffering through it." At Drazgh's flat look he shifted sheepishly. "Not to say we didn't the best possible job either way, right?"

Drazgh continued resolutely. "If, however, there are any problems, your bonus will be ten pounds of steel."

The goblin rubbed one long ear thoughtfully, hiding his confusion. "All right. Not quite as generous a bonus, but steel is always useful, right? I can find good uses to put it to."

"You can." Drazgh patted the haft of Terror, rising over his shoulder. "You'll have to start by dislodging it from your skull."

Blitwhistle gave the weapon an uncomfortable look. "We've fulfilled our end of the contract to your specifications. Meaning that, ah, killing any goblin workmen will constitute a breach of contract on your part. You realize the Cartel would never deal with you again."

"Yes. Unfortunately for you the contract terminates when you do, removing the Cartel from the obligation of paying out your death benefit." Drazgh smiled humorlessly. "The Horde would suffer from losing goblin workers and materials, the Cartel would suffer from losing its primary source of business. But you and your craftsmen, Overseer, would lose by far the most out of the deal. Death with a pitiful final tally."

The goblin's expression was dark. "So if the fleet makes it in one piece I get a trade prince's ransom. And if there's problems, even ones outside my control, I get screwed out of being remembered by my own people."

Drazgh smiled, showing his tusks. "I'm sure Hellscream did a fine job keeping you on task with the fear of death. He obviously doesn't know the proper way to motivate goblins."

Blitwhistle sighed. "No, he doesn't. Which is why I like working with him." He put his fingers to his lips and gave a piercing whistle. Goblins began popping out of the woodwork. Sometimes literally. "There may be a few, ah, improvements to be made to the fleet before we depart."

Drazgh nodded. "I'll leave you to it."

.

"Hey boss what's the big idea with these new orders?" Hal asked indignantly. "You trying to keep us alive or something?"

Of course it would be his second doing the most complaining. "There's always the next big score," Blitwhistle said patiently.

Hal scowled at him. "Keep telling us that, boss. I figured when we signed on with the orcs we'd be hitting it big time left and right, like we did during the Second War. But so far this time around it almost looks like the Alliance would be the ones to work for to get our final payoff."

Blitwhistle sighed and rubbed his eyes. "I've been meaning to ask you about that, Sparkfuse. Normally I expect less ambition in my right hand man . . . I don't like having to find replacements for useful people. Why are you so interested in winning the jackpot by cashing out early?"

"Oh what, you ask me now? I've been doing the high risk high reward jobs for two decades now trying to find one with 100% assurance of death, and you decide to wait this long to find out?"

"Yes."

Hal paused and rubbed his chin, looking at his boss suspiciously. "I'm just trying to hit the Hall of Fame in the final tally, same as any goblin."

The overseer shook his head. "Oh sure, we all dream of dying in a shower of coins. But most of us keep telling ourselves tomorrow is as good a day to rack in our final tally as today. Then they get too old for the best contracts and never manage it. But you've been gunning for that death benefit since you were a kid. What's your story?"

Hal shrugged. "Runs in the family, you know? My father had it, my grandmother had it. Sparkfuses for seven generations have hit the Hall of Fame. We've got a dozen names up there. I figured I'd get a kid early, so he'd be old enough to be beneficiary for my death benefits, and then I'd just go for it. With so many records in the family why not hit the one for being the youngest Sparkfuse to get the biggest fortune?"

Blitwhistle looked at him sympathetically. "You've missed that mark though, haven't you? Drik Sparkfuse cashed in at age 32, nearly three hundred daraiks."

"Yeah yeah, don't remind me." Hal gave the fighter engine a vindictive blow with his socket wrench.

An uncomfortable silence settled. "Well there's always the management track," Blitwhistle said, trying to sound comforting. "If I get lucky and cash out early you'll probably take over for me. You might get even higher in the Cartel. Maybe even earn your way to the Hall of Fame instead of getting in by death benefit. That'd be something your family would remember for a few centuries."

Hal dropped the wrench and searched around for his arclight spanner. "Yeah, if I want to live to be a hundred humping my ass for the same result a convenient careless mistake would get me."

Well, obviously his second didn't want to be comforted. "You gotta look on the bright side. Maybe the Alliance will intercept us and blow us out of the sky."

Hal brightened. "Hey yeah. Or the lifting gas sacs could catch a spark and blow the ship to smithereens. I just gotta kept my chin up."

Blitwhistle caught Hal's arclight spanner and twisted the crackling tip slightly closer to his second's face. "As long as it's an accident, Sparkfuse," he said quietly. "Don't embarrass the Cartel, me, or the Horde, or your offspring will be searching for your name in the scrap pile."

Hal scowled at him, jerking his tool away. "Two decades I've done it honest, long after I would've gotten any benefit outta that kinda scam. You think I'm going to suddenly switch gears now?"

Satisfied, Blitwhistle clapped his second on the shoulder and continued on. The fleet was going to be embarking soon, and thanks to Drazgh's confounded meddling his workmen were going to be killing themselves right up to when the ropes cast off to plug the leaks and weld the sparking wires.

He'd damn well better pay the promised bonus. It may be impossible to keep so many ships, _and_ their escort fighters, in the air through a two month voyage across storm-wracked seas, but he intended to do the impossible yet again. And for that all he asked was that he be compensated as promised.

A goblin could only take being kicked around for so long, and then he started wondering if he couldn't earn himself a death benefit by taking the business partners screwing him over with him.

.

Say what you would about Hellscream, and Drazgh could say plenty, but you had to admit he had a flair for the dramatic.

The fifty rising airships were silhouetted by the fiery coin of the sun just topping the horizon, giving all the orcs and vassal races who'd remained in Orgrimmar a real show. Most had gathered on the beach to watch the airships launch and turn their slow way east, out over the sea, on their long and glorious voyage to conquest, plunder, and victory.

One month, just as Blitwhistle had promised.

Drazgh had joined the rest of his Dek'Terror lining the railings of the airship squinting fiercely into the sunrise. A useless, empty gesture, since all the interesting action would be on the other railing looking back to Orgrimmar. Nothing to see to the east but empty sea until they'd traveled for a few weeks.

Having a more intimate knowledge of the airship's construction, he didn't lean against the railing.

At the front of the fleet of airships sailed Orgrim's Hammer, second of its name. Hellscream had been infuriated to learn that Thrall had lost his beloved airship in the Plane of Earth, but his fury was tempered by his pleasure at the opportunity to steal the name back for his own flagship. It, and four ships behind it, were crammed with his finest Kor'kron and most elite worg riders.

Dek'Terror had been assigned the rearguard, the place of lowest honor. The only time they could expect heroics was when the battle was lost, their honor eternally tainted by sacrificing themselves to let the others live to find victory another day. Drazgh had lived long enough to appreciate the role of such warriors, but his orcs still rankled at riding the five airships at the back of the fleet. Even the treasonous trolls, who'd kept themselves aloof from combat and said nothing about their leader's treachery in threatening their warchief, had been put before them in the line of airships, the thirty directly behind Hellscream's own. And Vol'jin himself rode with them.

But Drazgh agreed with this decision, even if he would've preferred to not be the one put here. The fleet needed trustworthy orcs to encircle the fleet front and back, and Dek'Terror had the task of guarding the vital final ten ships situated just ahead of them. All the munitions, provisions, and armaments were stowed in nine of those ships, and more vital still the tenth had been outfitted with kennels for the worgs rode by Hellscream's riders, and those claimed by the officers, including Drazgh's own.

If any Dek'Terror complained too loudly, at least the could be comforted in knowing they hadn't been assigned as a worg wrangler. Drazgh knew from experience that his race's beloved companions hated airship travel, and made an even bigger mess than usual. Even competent wranglers got snapped at.

But such thoughts were fleeting, driven away by the wind and the fierce sun burning into his eyes. Goblin sailors were casting off the lines, making final adjustments to the balloons, and all around him engines were roaring to life and propellers beginning the slow, relentless spin that would carry the fleet across the sea to the Eastern Kingdoms. Hellscream's airship slid smoothly into the air, guided by Blitwhistle himself, and behind them the airships bobbed upward in pairs, fighting air currents and quirks of their engines to stay level with each other.

Half the fleet was in the air when the roar of the airships' engines was joined by a slightly softer but higher pitched roar, and from the top decks of each airship its complement of escort planes launched, swooping port and starboard to avoid the airships and buzzing about them like flies around an elekk carcass.

Blitwhistle hadn't been pleased by that particular bit of pomp, whining about fuel expendages and the extra risk of trying to coordinate launching the escorts from the tops of launching airships before any of the ships had even been kept in the air long enough to make sure its systems were functioning properly.

Here, too, Drazgh agreed with Hellscream. Not only did it make a fine show, but it allowed him to see if all the escorts were working properly before the fleet even launched. That was probably one of the reasons why Blitwhistle had objected so strenuously: rather than having time for his mechanics to do further work on the planes in the air, he was facing the prospect of losing his bonus just minutes after they'd launched, and possibly by pilot error rather than mechanical failure.

But there were no pilot errors that he could see as the escorts began flying complicated formations and doing complex aerial maneuvers, and no mechanical failures either. And the stirring sight drew a deafening roar from the assembled crowd below and behind, cries for the Warchief, for victory, and for the Horde. The noise was overpowering even on the airships, and down among the crowds it had to be deafening.

"Cast final lines!" a goblin's voice piped from the front of the deck. "Engines full, and take us five degrees starboard for that wind! Let's see if we can match Orgrim's Hammer for a clean launch."

Drazgh looked ahead to where the goblin captain stood at the controls, surrounded by hustling goblin crew. It seemed like a large majority of Blitwhistle's craftsmen and engineers were trained to smoothly transition into roles aboard the airships, leaving the manufactory manned with a skeleton crew and led by a minor engineer promoted to the task. The goblins were investing as much into this venture as any race.

Unfortunately _Dagra's Scowl_, Drazgh's own airship, was being piloted by Blitwhistle's own second, Hal Sparkfuse. Normally that would've filled him with confidence, but after his run-in with the goblin prior to Deneth's sendoff he'd done a little digging. Competent as he was, the goblin was also notorious for chasing the most dangerous tasks that could earn him a death benefit.

Hardly comforting that he'd chosen Drazgh's ship, of all of the fleet, to pilot.

But Drazgh pushed aside that misgiving as well, letting it slip away into the glory of the moment. Dek'Terror rose a fierce cheer as their ships lifted into the sky, and Drazgh joined his voice to theirs, shouting threats and taunts to the enemy they'd finally set out to pursue.

The Twilight's Hammer and the Dragonmaw both had best see to their weapons and prepare to meet their ancestors. While this army was not large by the standards of the major conflicts he'd been in, numbering scarcely more than three thousand fighters and perhaps another five hundred crew, it was represented by the finest fighters the Horde had to offer. The airships alone could decimate armies with their armaments.

And for good or ill, the Warchief led them.

.

Render hissed through the air, coming within an inch of the blood elf before he managed to twist aside. Deneth reset and brought the weapon back up in a reverse of the previous blow, stepping forward to reduce his room to dodge. But Nova stepped as well, to the side, and again the weapon _whooshed_ past.

"Come on," Nova said lightly.

Deneth growled and spun her axe around to a reverse grip, whipping the lighter end of the haft at the elf's face. His head bobbed and darted out of the way, and when she again flipped Render to bring its head hissing across at chest level he leaned over backwards and idly watched it pass overhead.

"Pride of the Horde," he taunted. "Quit grabbing your ass and _hit me_!"

With a snarl she redoubled her efforts, swinging her weapon again and again with all the speed her arms could muster. She was fresh, Render's weight rested familiar in her hands, and she had never felt more in control of herself. And yet as the blasted elf kept dancing she _couldn't hit him_!

She was used to battle being a contest of strength. Her training opponents had always parried her blows, or met them with shield or armor. Very rarely in her experience did they dodge unless the blow was ludicrously slow or poorly aimed. Even on the battlefield, against the night elves and other agile enemies, she'd never felt this slow and awkward.

This had to rank as one of the most humiliating fights of her life. If you could even call it a fight when she wasn't landing any blows and Nova was just dancing around like a jackass.

With a sudden charge she was able to get close enough to him to where she was able to execute one of her prized routines, a blindingly quick chop to get an opponent off balance, then a far-reaching slash with her grip near the end of Render's haft. Instead of staggering backwards like her opponents usually did Nova twisted aside from the chop, then stepped into her and slammed his shoulder into her ribcage.

It wasn't a particularly solid blow, but he did it just as she was shifting position. The next thing she knew she was flat on her back. She lay there motionless for a moment, straining to control her rage. If she moved she was afraid she'd go berserk and destroy Render on the nearest rock.

"Okay seriously," Nova said. "Is this a joke or something?"

"Don't be cruel, Hiezal," Anette scolded.

Nova snorted and ambled over to lean against a tree trunk. "Cruel would be having her try to hit you instead, dear heart."

"Oh that's not true," Anette protested. "I'm not any faster than you, I'm just a smaller target."

"Smallest target I've ever hit," Nova shot back. Anette giggled.

Deneth rolled over and shoved to her hands and knees, then to her feet. After a second glaring between the two she tossed Render aside. "We're done." Without waiting for a response she stalked into the trees, going far enough away to hopefully be out of earshot before finding a sturdy trunk and slamming her gauntleted fists against it over and over until she was afraid she'd break her knuckles.

"Don't be mad, big sister," a high, sweet voice said from behind her. "You're swinging a heavy axe in heavy armor. On the battlefield you're a terror. But Hiezal and me, we're used to doing everything we can to avoid being seen, and when that fails to avoid being hit."

"I can't hit him, and he can do whatever he wants to me," Deneth growled. "That means I could never beat him in a fight."

"Why would you want to?" Anette asked innocently, coming to stand next to her. "You never have to worry about Hiezal wanting to hurt you."

Deneth snarled and dropped to the ground leaning against the abused tree. "And what about others like him? What if I'm on the other side of the battlefield from a night elf who could walk up to me, slip past my attacks, and slit my throat?"

"You have your armor."

"Armor isn't perfect."

Anette shrugged. "Then you have me and Hiezal to watch your back. No one's faster or sneakier than us."

"And should I ask you to chew my food while I'm at it?" Deneth demanded. "Wipe my ass, clean my armor? And doing all that you might as well swing my weapon too and complete my humiliation!" She stomped away again.

To her absolute outrage Anette followed her, small round face set stubbornly. "You're a good warrior, Deneth. You're one of the best I've seen. Don't you know yet that Hiezal is one of the most graceful of a race of extremely agile elves, with a lifetime of experience more than four times as long as ours. And he practices and hones his reflexes constantly. Not to mention you're not used to an enemy who dodges. All you need is more practice with him, to learn more about how a person who dodges thinks differently from a person who meets attacks. Maybe try learning how to dodge yourself so you understand it. Then you'll be able to hit any enemy that comes at you."

"Don't mock me with your sympathy," Deneth growled. She couldn't bring herself to take a swing at Anette, but she broke into a run. A few minutes later when she looked back she was alone.

When she could finally bring herself to return to camp dawn had come and gone, and the others were already packed up and waiting to depart.

"-don't see why," Nova was saying when she arrived. "She's the one who asked _me_. Probably off her game since fighting those two cultists and realizing she couldn't touch them." Deneth slipped behind a tree to listen.

"You know you're supposed to be stern while teaching, Hiezal, not insulting" Anette replied. "And you're already too mean to her. She's not as savage as she'd like everyone to think, and Clovis's death hit her as hard as anyone. Harder, maybe, since she can't admit to herself that she's grieving."

Deneth wasn't sure about that at all. Bravik hadn't said a word since his companion's death, and as soon as the burial was done he'd immediately taken flight once more, again searching for the pass they sought.

Perhaps some of it was that, like the blood elves, the tauren been more confident with one of his own race around. But the tenderness with which he'd carried Clovis to the rough grave they'd dug suggested something more, if she was any judge of tauren.

And it hadn't been _her_ weeping all night at the loss of a friend and ally. Anette could talk all she liked about how sad Deneth was, but while she missed Clovis and wished the tauren was still there, she'd buried closer friends without a tear shed. The half-elf was just fooling herself into thinking Deneth shared her own feelings.

As if to convince herself of that Deneth wasted no more time in stomping into the clearing, retrieving her axe and pack and getting everything situated for travel. "We'll march closer to the mountains today," she snapped. "We're getting close to the point where we'll have to reveal ourselves to the night elves if we can't find the pass we seek, but in case Bravik finds it I want to be as close to where it starts as possible."

"The terrain be tougher closer ta da mountains," Jin'zur warned. "And we no longer have Clovis ta speed our pace."

"Then we shouldn't waste time." Deneth strode out of the clearing, daring anyone to say otherwise.

No one did. Anette came to walk beside her, holding her hand, and Nova took his familiar place off to the side. Delphine rubbed her head against the half-elf's shoulder for a moment, then padded after Jin'zur as he slipped ahead to scout their path.

Two hours later, near the peak of a foothill they'd elected to climb over rather than go around, a screeching mesa eagle circled them once, then swooped down to land in their midst, shapeshifting into Bravik standing in an awkward perch.

The tauren straightened heavily. Dark circles beneath his eyes betrayed his exhaustion, as did the way he tottered before finding his balance. "I've found it," he said. "But if we'd hoped for an unguarded way into Hyjal our hope is vain. Alliance forces are camped in the pass."

Nova's spoke, voice sharp. "_Alliance_ forces?" he repeated. "As in not night elf?"

Bravik nodded. "Humans," he clarified. "Several hundred strong bearing a blue tabard with a silver lion upon their breast."

The blood elves exchanged surprised glances. "You don't say," Nova whispered, almost to himself. "Any idea why such a large force is camped out guarding a tiny pass, rather than within Hyjal where they could be more useful?"

Bravik shrugged. "They have a few patrols out, as if assigned to guard the past, but the majority of them remain within their camp."

Anette danced eagerly, eyes lit up. "Is it them, Hiezal?" she asked.

"Maybe," Nova replied slowly. "Although with our luck it's probably an Outland group, maybe even led by Trollbane himself."

"What are you talking about?" Deneth demanded. "Do you know these humans?"

The blood elf ignored her question. "Well, friends, pick your doom. Humans here and now, or farther north to night elves. I believe Anette could be more useful with her own kin, but the decision is yours." As he said that last his eyes were resting on Deneth pointedly.

Deneth scowled. Thrall had given them this mission, and she wasn't above putting herself at the mercy of pinkskins to see it completed. "We've been traveling long enough."

"Humans it is!" Nova said brightly, rubbing his hands together. He turned to Bravik. "Now, where did you say the closest patrol was?"

.

As she'd expected, the humans were riding their horses.

The beasts were easier to feed and train than worgs, and far easier to find fodder for, so it was no surprise they were common. Especially since humans wearing their heaviest plate were rarely strong enough to go far without a beast to carry them.

Deneth had enough experience facing mounted foes to respect the advantage those mounts gave. Some warhorses were trained to bite and kick, or topple other mounts or large foes with their shoulders. But even knowing all that she couldn't help but view mounted humans with contempt.

Too weak to carry their supplies without the aid of a beast, too lazy to walk on their own feet. Orcs spurred by drums and whips could nearly match the pace of mounted humans over long distances, and a charge of even the most disciplined warhorses could be disrupted by the whiff of a single worg.

Fitting, in a way, that Orcish mounts preyed upon human ones the way orcs so easily preyed upon humans.

These ones were wearing the heaviest plate and riding chargers, heavy cavalry and probably more than their fair share of knights amongst the group, if Deneth's knowledge of pinkskins held any bearing. Those big horses were ill suited to these treacherous mountain trails, and the group picked its way slowly.

All bore the silver lion-head tabard, and most had the lion painted on the shields slung behind their saddles as well. Only the one at their head was completely unadorned, a worn but well cared for broadsword at his waist and a scarred and dented tower shield of unpainted wood and steel bands on his arm.

A shield that large could be awkward in the saddle, and the man's armor, while a complete set of heavy plate, was light enough to wear afoot, his size suggesting he'd make light of such burdens. This was a man used to fighting on the ground, and he wasn't a member of the organization the others belonged to.

And yet he led the group.

"Stay here," Nova hissed. "Keep your hands away from your weapons too, if you don't mind." With that the blond blood elf strode out of the cover of the undergrowth. By all appearances he was unarmed, his sword and dagger left aside in Jin'zur's care. But Deneth wouldn't have wagered any sum on him being without weapons hidden somewhere in his camouflaged garb. Anette followed right behind, dressed in flowing blue Apprentice robes that hugged her slender form and made her look like a lost waif, the effect increased by the unbound river of dark hair that flowed to her waist. Unlike Nova she had a dagger belted beside the pouch on her left hip, but few would consider a mage's knife as great a threat as the mage herself.

More fools they.

"Horde!" one of the silver lion bearers shouted. With a ringing rasp that sounded almost as one a dozen weapons sprang from their sheaths. Disciplined veterans.

Nova waved a snowy white cloth, indicating his desire for truce. "Peace, good humans," he called in Common. Her father had seen the importance of being able to communicate with the enemy, so Deneth could understand most of what he said. "As you can see by our tabards we claim neutrality, affiliated with the Guardians of Hyjal."

"Bullshit," the same man snarled. An officer certainly, perhaps second in command. "We've been burned trusting blood elves before."

"We might say the same of humans," Nova replied lightly, starting forward with the flag still waving merrily overhead. "But will not your leader speak for you, sir? He of the unadorned armor?"

There was a pause, almost long enough to make Deneth's hands twitch to her weapons. They were still out of sight, but she obeyed Nova's directions even so. Finally the human leader spoke, voice ringing hollowly from the depths of his full helm. "Put away your weapons, men," he said curtly. With that he reached up and unfastened his helm, pulling it free to reveal a heavily disfigured face, the snow of his hair suggesting at least sixty years of hard experience, perhaps more. Burn scars, Deneth was sure, extending mostly along the left side of his face and head, leaving the hair slightly patchy there.

The lion officer gave a cry of protest. "But sir, these are Horde! They're enemies."

"Horde, yes. Enemies, no. If their claims are true they fight beside us here in Hyjal." The scarred man glared at Nova. "Am I right?"

In answer Nova turned and beckoned to the rest of them. Deneth led the way out onto the narrow trail, Bravik and Jin'zur flanking her. Their appearance made the humans stiffen, but they obeyed their commanders orders to put away their weapons.

Nova was grinning.

Deneth opened her mouth to speak, but Nova beat her to it. "I'd have to be ten kinds of stupid to fight against you, Lord Marbrand. We're here for the Twilight's Hammer."

"Who gives a damn why they're here?" Lord Marbrand's officer protested. He still held his weapon. "These are the same animals that cut a red slaughter through Ashenvale. Who fed our allies to their mounts like carrion."

The scarred leader turned a dark glare on his officer. One of his eyes was slightly milky, likely injured in the same blaze that scarred his face, and it made the expression all the more intimidating. "Put it away, Canner. These Horde are under my personal protection."

"But _why_?" the irate human demanded.

Marbrand gestured towards Nova of all people. "Because I owe my life to this blood elf. Long before his people ever considered joining the Horde, back when the Horde was still a ragtag bunch scraping together an existence in Durotar, he stood over my wounded body and gathered a pile of corpses around us before he finally fell himself. Whatever the sins of the Horde, the Castaway is a true man of honor."

The air was split by a piercing shriek of laughter. "Hiezal, a man of _honor_?" Anette demanded, rolling on the ground holding her stomach in mirth. "Boy are you easy to fool, burned knight."

Marbrand's eyes tightened. "I'll admit your companion has his faults, and he owes me and some friends of mine a great deal of gold. But he's also a better man than you know."

Anette abruptly hopped to her feet and pelted over to the group of humans, some of whom actually redrew their weapons as if expecting an attack. But she only leapt up and threw her arms around the burned lord's knee, vaulting up into his lap and showering his face with kisses. Marbrand looked so stunned it was a surprise he didn't fall off his horse at this barrage of affection. "He's the best man I know," she said, resting a head on his armored shoulder. "I'm glad you're his friend, because that means we're more than friends. You're like my grandfather, which is good because my own grandfather hates me."

Marbrand craned his neck to glance down at the limpet who'd attached herself to him. "Are you mocking me, child?"

Her reply was an emphatic kiss on the mouth. "No, I love you for being the kind of person Hiezal would risk his life to protect. Can I call you grandfather?"

The scarred Elder gently picked Anette up and leaned out of his saddle to set her on the ground, turning his glare towards Nova. "Castaway, what the hell is wrong with this girl?"

Nova was rubbing his face, his hand hiding a smile. "She's a Firedge."

Deneth frowned. She hadn't heard Anette's surname before now, and it meant nothing to her. But Marbrand looked as if he'd been punched in the gut by an ogre. "She's . . ." He trailed off, spluttering. Then, oddly, he glanced at her features, eyes darting to the ones that suggested a human heritage. To Deneth's surprise that scarred face paled, possibly in fear. "Gods of Light and Truth," he breathed. After a brief hesitation he swung out of his saddle, motioning for his men to dismount as well. The movement was somewhat stiff, indicating injury or stiff muscles, but she would've been hesitant to call it an advantage.

"This is the farthest from any place I would've expected to have a reunion with you and Lady's Saire's child, Castaway," he growled. "Perhaps we'd better hear more of your purposes."

"On the way to your camp, perhaps?" Nova asked. "If your offer of hospitality extends so far. We've recently fought a grim battle and grieve a lost companion, and we'd appreciate the rest. You have my word our intentions are peaceful."

Marbrand's eyes fell on Deneth, and she stiffened in spite of herself. She felt as if she was under the stern gaze of her father after disappointing him. "And you can speak for your companions?"

"He doesn't need to speak for us," Deneth said, striding forward. Not all the way to where Nova stood, but closer. "You have my word, human, on the honor of my axe and my family's name, that my weapons will not be raised against you save in defense."

"And I as well," Bravik said. "No tauren ever raises his weapon save in the direst of need."

"Ya have no worry about me," Jin'zur said, resting a hand on Delphine's russet head. "Mah bow be for Twilight Cultists."

Marbrand looked them over, so long and slow he might've been trying to read their souls and all the days of their lives in one long inspection. Then he turned and started back up the trail, leading his horse behind him. The other humans stayed mounted, some riding ahead while others dropped behind as if to escort them like prisoners. Deneth didn't like having humans at her back, but she didn't see how she could possibly object without increasing tensions further.

Which wasn't to say Anette had any such inhibitions. One of the humans dropping back to guard them was Marbrand's second, the hostile officer the burned knight had called Canner. The girl ran over and patted his booted foot. "Now that we're all friends can I thank you for being so protective of Grandfather?"

The human glared down at her through his half-helm, but he was obviously hesitant to speak angrily to the girl. "I apologize for my initial greeting, child," he said stiffly. "I wasn't aware of the full situation, as Marbrand so rightly chided me, and I let old hostilities guide my tongue."

"That's all right," Anette said, hugging his ankle as she walked along beside him. "It takes wisdom to see when you're wrong, and courage and decency to admit it. You remind me of old Elder Ooluu, who I met down in Stranglethorn."

The grizzled veteran smiled indulgently. "I've been to the jungles there a time or two. Was this Ooluu noble and wise, child?"

"Oh yes," she said happily. "He was the most respected bonobo in his tribe."

The human stiffened in affront, and up ahead Nova rubbed his face with one hand. "Ah, dear heart," he said carefully. "Most humans take umbrage at being compared, even favorably, to creatures lower on the evolutionary tree such as monkeys."

Anette turned reproachful eyes on him. "Apes, Hiezal. Don't be insensitive."

The older blood elf nearly choked, spluttering in mirth he struggled to conceal for the sake of the offended human onlookers.

Deneth listened to the exchange and suddenly a lot more about humans made sense. The pinkskins often called orcs by names like ape, monkey, and orangutan. Most of her fellow orcs assumed it was a descriptive term, like "greenskin". But if humans themselves were outraged by being called such things, because they suggested ties to a primitive and savage past humans wanted to forget, then for them the insult was a low one.

She doubted it would change her own reaction to being called such things, since she was used to enemies hurling insults and this one held no sting for her. But she'd remember it next time she wanted to enrage a human.

For the next little while she walked silently, keeping close by her tauren and troll companions as Nova and Anette walked beside Marbrand. Or at least Nova did, while Anette did her best to lavish Marbrand's horse with loving attention as they walked, feeding it bits of food from her pack that the four-legged beast greedily snorked up in its flappy lips.

"I wish we could've met under friendlier circumstances," Nova eventually said, glancing idly at the row of hostile backs ahead. "Centuries of friendship between our peoples, all broken in a few short decades. It takes the end of the world itself to convince us to set aside our quarrels and join forces against the true threat."

Marbrand shook his head wearily, and for a moment he looked like her father did after one of his old dreams. "Dark days have come among us. I spent my life struggling to restore Azeroth to the peace I knew in my youth. Alas, I fear that peace will not return in my lifetime. Perhaps it never will." As he said this he turned his head, and his eyes settled on Deneth. There was more than a little condemnation in them.

She drew herself up indignantly. Could this human possibly blame her for Deathwing and the Twilight's Hammer cult? For the trouble they were currently in? "You complain of dark days, old one?" she demanded. "My people's homeworld is destroyed, and most of our numbers obliterated. We scrape in a desert, surrounded by enemies and fighting to survive in the face of utter destruction."

The humans muttered angrily to themselves, and the old burned knight went so far as to spit off to the side. "Don't speak to me of the troubles of orcs, girl," he growled. "Your world is destroyed by your own hands. I would know, I was there. Your people are surrounded by enemies because you attack everyone you come across. And you speak of utter destruction? You would have brought that fate on the draenei, and on the races of Azeroth as well." He smiled humorlessly. "Yes, I was on the receiving end of much of your people's current history."

The unfairness of his words made Deneth grit her teeth, and it was all she could do to not attack him then and there. "I did none of those things, human," she spat. "Would you lay the sins of the father at the feet of his children?"

"I would," the human said. "I must. We tried letting your people find their redemption and look at where we are now. I'm starting to believe if you don't punish the children they're bound to repeat the mistakes of their fathers. I can think of no better example than your own Warchief. Son of Grom, the leader of the Warsong who embraced demon blood not once but twice. By all accounts Garrosh is every bit his father's son. And your people universally embraced him as your leader."

Marbrand shifted, eyes narrowing. "Or what of you yourself, girl? Most of the Orcish nation's warriors participated in the recent slaughter in Ashenvale. Will you say you didn't take part?"

She scowled. "That is a different thing, human. The suzh'algez, the night-skinned elves, are wardens of our prison, trapping us in a barren land to wither and die. We fought in Northrend for the good of you humans, the true victims of the Scourge, and starved and weakened ourselves by stretching so far. And you repay us by refusing us the resources we need."

To her surprise the human threw back his head and laughed. "Is that what your leaders tell you, girl?" he asked. By his laughter she'd expected his tone to be mocking, but if anything it was incredulous. "Azeroth has been decimated by warfare, in great part due to the actions of your people. Vast expanses of verdant land are opened up to settlement. You complain of living in a wasteland guarded by enemies? It was your own former Warchief, Thrall, who settled you there, wasn't it? And if the night elves watch you closely don't they have good reason? They first met you when you encroached upon their lands, laid waste to their beloved forests, butchered large numbers of them, then drank demon blood and murdered one of their gods. You don't think they'd be hostile neighbors?"

This drew Deneth aback. She hadn't ever paused to consider why her people lived in Durotar. "Where else would we go?" she demanded.

The scarred human's eyes glittered. "After your current aggression, it could be argued you no longer have anywhere to go. But that aside I can think of countless places. Feralas, Un'Goro, Stranglethorn now that the Gurubashi trolls have been destroyed or integrated into other tribes. The once-rich kingdoms in the northern Eastern Kingdoms if your ally the Banshee Queen didn't seem determined to make them plagued wastes. The Swamp of Sorrows. Truth be told your own lands are greener and richer since the Cataclysm, so your complaining of living in a wasteland is weaker than it once was."

He laughed again. "Hell, if all else failed why not Northrend? The Scourge is vanquished, there are still green lands there, and the Alliance has little interest in holding any of that territory of death and devastation. The few undead, vrykul, and hostile races that do remain would be a suitable outlet for your race's endless well of aggression, and you need not ever complain of being trapped in."

Deneth shuddered. "You would banish us to the north? Our people loathe the cold."

Marbrand's eyes tightened, although she didn't know what in her last words could've angered him. But instead of answering he turned to Nova. "The orcs are as unrepentant as ever, I see," he said.

Nova shrugged. "So it would seem. Yet even so this particular orc's main purpose for being here is to do her best to mend ties with the other races. I was assured she was an able ambassador in that regard.

Deneth didn't like the sharp look the blood elf gave her, but his chastising shut her up.

But not Marbrand. "If that's your purpose here you should encourage your companion to keep her silence in future encounters with other races. Age has taught me patience and cooled my penchant for reckless action. I can't say the same for many of my allies when it comes to bandying words with honorless orcs."

That was too much, and Deneth started to reach over her shoulder, intending to teach the human the courtesy of her axe.

But before she could do anything a small hand slipped into hers, and she looked down to see Anette staring up at her with big eyes. The tiny half-elf jerked her head towards the clear space between their group and the humans riding behind, and Deneth reluctantly let herself be led away. It shamed her that others had to remind her of the oath she'd made to her father, and to Thrall, to do all she could to keep the peace with the Alliance.

Little as she liked it their enemies were once again their allies in this venture. It was the Twilights she'd come to fight.

That didn't stop her from being angry. When Deneth judged they were far enough away she yanked her hand free. "Why are you so friendly with the humans?" she demanded. "Your people swore an oath to the Warchief. To the Horde! Where's your loyalty?"

The girl gave her a hurt look. "I don't know."

That wasn't the answer Deneth was expecting. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Anette shrugged. "I don't know. My mother's a member of the Kirin Tor, influential among the Sunreavers. Hiezal took me around to a lot of dangerous places fighting with the Horde, but he never seemed to care about the fights. Anyway the Forsaken brought the blood elves into the Horde, and no one else has really seemed all that welcoming. And now the Forsaken seem to be going crazy and no _idea_ what we're going to do about them, so . . ." She shrugged helplessly. "I never really considered myself a part of the Horde as much as, well, I don't know. We just do what we have to to survive, and make friends with anyone who'll help us in that goal. Isn't that a Horde thing?"

Deneth glared at the girl in disbelief. Was she seriously saying she didn't care about her oaths, or the loyalty of the faction that took her in when the blood elves were on the point of total collapse and needed aid in rebuilding? That there was no friendship or bonds, just cold callous convenience and impending betrayal if it was beneficial?

How could such dishonor be accepted in the Horde?

"So if the humans gave you a better offer you'd betray us?"

Anette's face crumpled in distress. "What? All this was about blood elves as a whole and the Horde, wasn't it? I would never do anything to you! You're my friends, you and Jin'zur and Bravik and Thrall and so many others. I promised I'd protect you!"

Deneth was still stinging from the human's words. "But you'd break that promise to save yourself?"

The half-elf burst into tears. "No I wouldn't!" she shouted. Then she turned and ran forward, past Nova and Marbrand to the line of humans riding single file.

.

Hiezal watched with Marbrand as Anette accosted one of his soldiers, a young woman in full plate, and wheedled her way up into the saddle. The silly girl was besieging her with a barrage of questions.

"Tell me of the child, Castaway," the old man said quietly. "I see her mother in her, although her coloring is much different. And perhaps I see her father's look as well."

Hiezal sucked air through his teeth in a warning _hsst_ and quickly pulled the old commander closer, looking uneasy. "For the sake of old friendships and the sake of an innocent's life, Marbrand, I'd appreciate if you kept any insights about Saire to yourself."

The human gave him a surprised look, but it was one that demanded questions. Nova sighed and lowered his voice. "The child is utterly without guile, save what I've taught her, but in her life enemies have sought her out. I've been forced to slay many of those who fought beside me on the days before and during our cursed Northrend campaign under the command of . . . him. Many of my recent efforts in Outland and Northrend were for the purpose of silencing such threats."

Marbrand's eyes widened in shock. "So she is the daughter of Saire and L-"

Hiezal cut in, possibly too quickly. Other than that he did a good job of hiding his panic. Marbrand would've guessed immediately of course. Everyone did. "That?" he gave an easy laugh. "Don't be absurd, my Lord. Those two never shared a bed, all rumors to the contrary aside." He gave a shudder. "Besides, if she'd come from _that_ blood she'd have been born with teeth in her cunt."

"And if anyone knows that's not true, it's Hiezal. He inspects the area regularly enough." Both jumped slightly as Anette slipped up next to Marbrand and took his hand. "Hi, Grandfather," she said. "Now that I've had time to think I remember you from a long time ago, although you probably don't remember me. Are you talking about my father? Who is he?"

Hiezal hated denying his dearest heart anything, but this was something he didn't have much choice about. "This is a conversation you shouldn't hear, dear heart," he said firmly. "Please go back to making friends with the Alliance soldiers."

She furrowed her brow stubbornly. "No. I want to know who he is."

To Hiezal's surprise Marbrand intervened. "Child," he said, the weight of long years of authority in his tone. "If you respect your guardian, obey him."

Anette turned wide eyes on him, looking almost disbelieving. Then she crossed her arms in a pout and stormed off, going right back to the woman she'd been talking to and, by all appearances, complaining about them. Hiezal could just imagine what she was saying.

Marbrand turned his scowling gaze back on him. "I've known you for a lecher in many ways, Castaway, but what that girl just suggested can't be the case. The child of your lover, someone you probably raised as a daughter?"

Hiezal hissed in irritation. Was there no one on this world who wouldn't judge him for that? Even the _orc_ disapproved. "Set that aside, Marbrand. Saire spent years in Stormwind, and as is our way she had more than one lover, especially among the mages. Yet even so on discovering Anette's maternal heritage you jumped immediately to your suspicion, and you aren't the only one to do so. Even if she doesn't bear his blood the mere suspicion of it will set all his enemies on her. And he has more than a few of those, especially among my people and the Forsaken, and formerly the naga and Scourge. Kael'thas had a bounty on his head for almost a decade until word got around the arcane community of his death, and plenty would use the daughter to get to one they imagine to be her father. Or avenge the father's deeds on her innocent head."

Marbrand shook his head. "So Saire has never acknowledged her own child?"

"Not openly. The story is she's a foundling I took on after the Northrend campaign. For those who dig deeper I've had rumors spread she's the bastard of Tyene and one of her human lovers, left in mine and Saire's care. Tyene isn't pleased that people think she ever let a man touch her, but for Anette's sake she lets the lie stand. She loves the girl. Everyone does, those intending to kill her aside."

Marbrand's gaze turned once more to Anette, brow furrowed. The girl had somehow convinced the woman soldier to dismount and show her a dance, and she was giggling as she mimicked the moves. "Perival told me of Lord Nex's final end," he said quietly. "The man never intended to leave a legacy. I'd hate to think in the end his legacy was putting an innocent girl with nothing to do with him in danger."

Hiezal felt his tension ease, although he couldn't done without anyone mentioning that name. Ever. "Then you'll keep your silence?"

The knight folded his arms, expression darkening. "On that, yes. Now let's speak more of you taking that innocent girl to your bed."

He threw up his hands. "What's wrong with everyone? She took _me_, and not without protest I promise you. Anyway she was well past the age of maturity when we, um, started, and even humans would find my behavior above reproach!"

"Nobody finds your behavior above reproach, Castaway. But even if that were true I feel compelled to protect her from harm, and there's no more certain way to harm a child than to-"

"Gods almighty!" Hiezal shouted. "You, Deneth, Thrall, the cow. Strangers we've barely met. _Everyone_ feels protective of her, including me! Since she was born I've given my entire life to keeping her safe and happy. You think I'd ever do _anything_ to hurt her? I'd sooner die!"

Both jumped again as Anette appeared again, placing herself protectively in front of Hiezal with her arms outstretched. "You leave him alone, Grandfather!" she said. "I don't know what you're talking about but you just leave him alone!"

Hiezal fought the urge to cover his face.

Marbrand opened his mouth to protest, then seemed to think better about it. For all her appearance and diminutive stature the girl's tone had something in it that wasn't about to be challenged. Hiezal knew well enough, since he'd had plenty of chances to think twice about doing just that. Eventually the human sighed, eyes glinting with a sort of irritated amusement. "I offer you my protection, child," he finally said. "From anything that troubles you."

Anette's anger immediately disappeared and she darted forward to jump up and throw her arms around his shoulders, legs dangling as she kissed his cheek. "I know you do, Grandfather. I'm glad you're here to help us."

The old knight's eyes narrowed at her casually including all of her companions in his offer, but then he gave up, awkwardly patting her on the back. "Such help as I can, child," he sighed. "Look at us, allies of the night elves and yet not even allowed to _enter_ Hyjal. I don't see how you'll get through. And you've yet to tell me what your purpose here is."

"Maybe you could tell me who my father is first," Anette piped up.

Hiezal swatted her bottom. "Go dance with your friend some more!" he snapped. Anette gave him a smoldering look that promised sweet vengeance and stalked away. Tonight was going to be either heaven or hell by the looks of it. Possibly both.

"Actually I have told you our purpose," he said when she was gone. "Get into Hyjal, introduce ourselves to the Guardians of Hyjal, and fight the Twilight Cult. Vague orders, which makes them easy enough to follow."

Marbrand snorted. "Easy? Night elves haven't allowed intruders near sacred World Tree in ten thousand years. The Alliance sends troops to aid them and we're all rebuffed, sent to these miserable tiny passes to guard against further intrusion when even a goat would have trouble invading through here! We can't go south because your Warchief Thrall promised the orcs would back out of Ashenvale and Varian doesn't want to jeopardize that. So here we are, performing the most useless sentry duty known to man. And you, the faction that just slaughtered thousands of night elves, expect to get representatives in?"

Marbrand had a good point, unfortunately. Hiezal shrugged. "Orders are orders, right? Hey, maybe it's time you started pressing harder about your own admittance into Hyjal. The night elves have been whining for months about how much help they need, so they shouldn't argue too much."

The burned commander sighed. "Don't take this the wrong way, Castaway, but you're not the person I'd want next to me as I struggle to convince my own allies to let me help them. And that goes double for your green-skinned friend. Triple for the troll, who bears Amani fetishes or I'm a clefthoof."

They brooded over that glumly for several long, silent minutes. "Well, at least we'll have time to catch up," he said morosely. "It is good to see you again by the way. And I'm glad Anette got a chance to really meet you. If there's anyone I would want her to spend time with, it's you."

Marbrand frowned. "She said she remembers me. Not surprising, since my face is nothing if not memorable. I recall a wee little thing on a visit to Tyene, once. Dark of hair, now I remember. Her?"

"Probably." Hiezal did his best to hide a pang of sadness. "I was in and out of her early life. It was only as she grew older that the danger to her increased and I needed to spirit her away."

"And now I've gone and connected her to Saire in the hearing of my men," Marbrand said grimly. "And even mentioned Lord-" he cut off, grimacing "-that is, our mutual human friend's name."

Hiezal nodded. He could've done without that. "Any of them who'd be in a position to connect the dots?"

The old man sighed. "Not among them. But I'm afraid if gossip spreads through camp there'll be those there who could do more with it."

He cursed. From Stranglethorn to Northrend his knives had silenced dozens who might do his maiden sweet harm, or even those with dangerous information and the inclination to give it to those who would. He didn't want to anger Marbrand by bringing death into the Alliance camp, but there was no barrier he wouldn't cross for Anette's sake.

None. "Who?"


	11. Interlude: Bathed by Moonlight

Chapter Ten

Interlude: Bathed by Moonlight

Tyrande was no fool.

Ten thousand years she'd guarded the beloved forests of her home, and roamed far through Kalimdor in search of potential threats. While the druids slept and serviced the green Dragon Aspect, guarding the world of the Emerald dream, their wives, sisters, mothers and daughters guarded the physical world and the Barrow Dens entombing their sleeping bodies.

She had never entered the realm of Ysera the Dreamer and so could not compare her sacrifice to that of her lover or the other druids. But as the world grew from young to old under her watchful eye, only the light of the Moon Goddess unchanging in all that time, she'd roamed from Silithis in the far south to Winterspring in the far north, and everywhere in between.

The other races of Kalimdor knew little of the night elves or their silent vigil over all, but the reverse was not true. In the night Tyrande's keen eyes had watched tauren roam and centaurs maraud, quillboar grow from animal to sentience under the care of the Ancient Spirit, Agamaggan, and goblins encroach and exploit. All as they lived their lives heedless of the eyes upon them.

Stealth and mystery had been her people's greatest cloak, and few were their battles. But battles there had been, and when there were not their vigil didn't slack, nor did their training. No finer warriors existed on Azeroth, and no finer leader and tactician to guide their arrows.

The clumsy subterfuges of these orcs didn't fool her. Thrall had sworn they would withdraw, and withdraw they were. But rather than retreat quickly and completely, to the betterment of all, they tarried and wreaked senseless destruction.

Had she the full might of her people she could've arranged a proper response to these brutish invaders. But her beloved had asked her to take only the fewest warriors she needed to defend their homeland so he could be free to lead the rest in doing what needed to be done. So many had fallen already to Malfurion's reckless haste and shortsightedness, carrion on that bloody battlefield where Hellscream's monsters defiled their valiant remains.

But just because she had only a small force of her finest skirmishers and ambushers, that didn't mean she would allow these orcs to retreat at their own whim. They stayed to hold as much kaldorei strength as possible in Ashenvale, bleeding her people on two fronts when they most needed to be strong. Garrosh thought he could keep her people at bay, weakened and divided, until he saw fit to return and finish the job with the full might of the Horde at his back.

Already she'd made him pay for his bloodthirsty arrogance. By a thousand well-placed arrows her small force had accounted for as many of the enemy as Malfurion's entire lost army.

And this night, if she had her will, the Horde presence in Ashenvale would either be set in full flight or eliminated.

The soft silver light of Elune bathed her, filling her with the rightness of her desires. Many races feared the savagery of the night elves, but they didn't understand that that savagery was directed only at the invader. Her people's wrath turned only on the wanton destroyer, the taker and the hewer. This forest was her home, every tree familiar as an old friend. She had bathed in every pond, rivulet, and lake in these hills and valleys, had trained sisters and gloried in their prowess, buried others and wept for the loss of those who could only be slain by violence, never age or sickness, each one taken like a bit of the light of the world vanishing to make it dimmer and less wondrous.

Finally Elune told her to stand. Her prayers and reflection were complete, her goddess's approval granted. It was time for action.

Tyraned lifted herself from her knees, ignoring the familiar ache, and strode to the center of the clearing with its tiny pool. She knelt to drink deep of its blessed waters, feeling strength flow anew through her body, and then she was up and running swift as silent as a hunting cat through the dense undergrowth surrounding this spot, down the hill to where her people waited.

She had felt the aging process begin anew when the World Tree perished, had mourned the loss of her immortality and the greater portion of her vigor. Last year, for the first time in living memory, she had sickened, only with a minor ailment, but in its own way as terrifying as a mortal wound.

Malfurion had promised her that the World Tree could be reborn again, that he had secured the promise of the Aspects of the four Dragonflights that they would restore their blessings to her people. Soon, now, soon, she would be summoned to preside over the ritual that would bring Nordrassil to new life, and all would be as it was.

Small wonder that Deathwing had chosen this moment to send his wretched cultists into Hyjal, or that Ragnaros, the mad and twisted Prince of the Plane of Fire, had picked the roots of Hyjal to make his reentry into Azeroth.

_Be strong, beloved_, she whispered in her heart. He would do his part, even as she did hers. And now that Ysera had awakened and the Emerald Dream was restored to perfection she could hope to have her husband for longer. To perhaps, even, finally have the children she'd longed for for all these years, sons and daughters both of their duties to their people had denied them the joy of.

The thought sent a flush through her, as if she were a maiden in the spring of her life with all the strength of youth lending wonder to new sensations within and without.

The five hundred Sentinels awaiting her arrival had as much presence in that clearing as five, silent watchers blending into the trees that were a part of them. A blundering orc could've walked right through their midst and noticed not a one of them unless he stumbled over her.

Tyrande made her way to the clearing's center, where a full fifty nightsabers sprawled like darkness given life. Her own, a beautiful frostsaber she called Sev'elha, Snow's Grace, was the only one with a white pelt, striped with black. She'd raised Sev'elha from a cub, and the graceful saber's movements were as much a part of her as her own arms and legs, an extension of her will like her bow and glaives and the holy light of the moon she wielded.

She vaulted onto the familiar saddle, lifting that bow high into the air. In the trees above dozens of beady eyes glittered down at her, druids in storm crow form awaiting her will. Dryads made last checks on their poisoned spears, while her elite huntresses mounted all around her and her archers slipped out of the clearing to make for their prepared positions.

From across the clearing two craggy hillsides shifted and rose, resolving into the shapes of mountain giants from out of the forbidding range warding Hyjal, while from the sky above hippogryph's shrieked, the high, clear voices of their riders calling them back on course. And the final presence, a purple and black form with two heads at the end of long, slender necks, looming high in the clouds, briefly occluded the moon before passing on. A single chimaera who called Ashenvale its home, one of the few of the kaldorei's beloved allies, for whom wyverns were lesser cousins. The only one who had not fled into hiding after the battle at Mount Hyjal, when the demon forces had decimated their number and nearly driven them extinct.

That one was Algaroth, greatsire of a whole dynasty before the demons came. Ever the guardian of Hyjal and the peaceful creatures that dwelled within it, he was swift to loose his wrath on any who harmed the innocent or disrupted the natural balance he safeguarded so vigorously. During the Battle of Hyjal a dreadlord had dared his corrosive breath and come close enough to destroy one of Algaroth's heads, nearly killing the noble creature and crippling his ability to think. No longer fully sentient, the chimaera still held to his lifelong resolve to protect his territory and what remained of his brood.

Tyrande had set one of her bravest hippogryph riders, Elessa, to guiding Algaroth and directing his fearsome breath to the proper targets. While one head could manage less devastation than two, she hoped that the chimaera's presence would turn the tide of battle one more time.

The orcs had forgotten the might of the night elves. After the battle of Hyjal too many of her people's allies had fled or perished. Mountain giants had taken the brunt of the demonic fury, as had the bear druids who so bravely drew the foe's attacks so her sisters could wield their longbows to full effect. Firbolgs had gone feral or been corrupted, dryads had gone into deep seclusion to mourn the death of their sire Cenarius. Many of the ancients had been deliberately corrupted by the foul satyrs, and the remainder had fled to the few uncorrupted parts of the forest and defended them savagely. And only the most persistent and powerful of druids could awaken treants from the forests where demons had trod, spreading their corruption. The treefolk couldn't bear to awaken to such a world, and preferred to dream their long, slow dreams in peace.

But her people's might was only sleeping, not spent. Tonight's attack would show the foul orcs that. They had brought their magnataur and their proto drakes and slain many, but they would find their strength was not so strong now that they'd awakened their enemy once more.

"The moon shines upon us, sisters," she whispered. Her people's preparations were so silent that even that soft exhalation carried to every keen ear. "Elune graces us with her approval this night. She will be with us."

That statement was met with a few sighs, almost of relief. Perhaps, after all these brave souls had suffered, they'd begun to wonder if their goddess still watched over them.

"We are blessed to worship the only true god ever discovered on this world or any other," she continued. "And doubly blessed that she loves us as her own children. Doubt not that she wept with us through every loss, that her eye burned bright with righteous fury when she witnessed the devastation of Silverwing Grove. Of Raynewood Retreat. Of all the beloved places her light fell upon, and all the beloved kaldorei slain by this enemy."

"Her gentle soul is roused to anger, and she wishes peace upon the lands of her people, a true peace so that nature may once again heal the scars left by demons and those that serve them."

Tyrande looked about once more, eyes glowing fervently. "Tonight, sisters, we will have that peace. Andu-falah-dor!"

"Let balance be restored!" her people cried back, raising their weapons in salute.

Then, silent once more, they streamed from the clearing like a twinkle of moonlight upon the leaf. Tyrande guided Sev'elha by hidden paths, her huntresses melting through the forest behind her. Overhead the druids of the talon made not a sound, while her hippogryph riders trailed the ground force with the softest flutter of wings. And the slow, heavy wingbeats of Algaroth could've been the heartbeat of the world itself.

Back in the clearing the mountain giants waited. They would approach as quickly and quietly as they were able, so that when the time came they could make their crashing charge through the trees to wreak their own allotted devastation on the enemy that had drawn them from their high homes.

It took a surprisingly short time to reach the Horde encampment, so well concealed had they been, and so stealthily had they snuck up on their enemy. Her sisters had already eliminated six patrols, and taken the outermost ring of sentries without raising the alarm.

Trusting to the others to complete the preparations, Tyrande led her huntresses up a low rise, steep on the side they approached from and on the far side a gentle grassy slope that led down into the camp. A perfect place to mount a charge, or hold one off.

From that vantage she could look over the campsite and see every part of the battlefield. Just as importantly, the aura of Elune's grace which shone down upon her, and from her flowed to bathe everything within her line of sight, would illuminate the entire battle. That sacred light would allow her keen-eyed sisters to make out the tremor of an orc's heartbeat from hundreds of yards away, while the enemy would see only blinding darkness, even the light of the moons withheld from them.

Trueshot aura, the other Alliance races called it, thinking her presence inspired her sisters to greater accuracy. True in a technical sense, but utterly wrong as well. All she offered was what they needed: light. The rest their own skill and experience provided.

Most of the inner rings of orcish and shu'halo sentries died without even knowing their enemy was there. None raised the alarm. And with no more noise than a twang of hundreds of bowstrings snapping in unison and the hiss of hundreds of arrows in flight the attack commenced. Death rained down upon that sleeping camp, piercing tents with carefully calculated guesses for where the sleepers inside would be, and orcs, taurens, trolls, blood elves and goblins began dying before they even awoke.

But mostly orcs. The true heart of Horde aggression, and the backbone of this defiling force.

Now cries were raised from within the camps, Horde defenders pouring out of their sense. Many, learning hard lessons from earlier attacks, slept in their armor and emerged alert with weapons in hand. But their alertness served them little, for all they saw were the black silhouettes of the tents around them, and for those with truly keen eyes the dark outline of undergrowth and trees at the borders of their camp.

Tyrande couldn't even imagine what it would be like to know that an arrow was aimed for her heart and she could see nothing. As much as this enemy stirred her righteous fury, even so she couldn't help but grudgingly admire the sheer courage it took for those warriors below to charge for the trees, trusting in their allies to rush beside them. Trusting in their leaders to lead the way to the enemy they couldn't see.

But that admiration couldn't stay her hand. Again and again the arrows flew, most still in disciplined volleys but some individuals breaking the pattern to target close individuals. In the center of the camp wyverns and bats took off with harsh shrieks, ridden by reckless trolls and orcs, and her sisters concentrated their fire on these agile and perilous targets.

Then fire roared through the night, hurting her eyes so much she physically recoiled. The flames were harsh and unforgiving compared to the gentle light of Elune which had bathed the area. And around her she could hear her sisters on their nightsabers hissing in pain, the nightsabers yowling with surprise.

Then her eyes were closed, and she melted back into the trees along with the others. The fires came from mages and shamans, pushing back the darkness with magical light and heat. They expended large amounts of their power on a gift Elune granted her children freely. But it wouldn't be enough.

And as she'd hoped, raucous shrieks filled the air, and she saw stormcrows on the branches surrounding the clearing shifting into their druid form. The beloved husbands and fathers of the night elves raised their arms, calling the gales they rode to bend to their will, and cyclones whirled through the night to catch the flames and snuff them out.

In the trees she could hear the clash of weapons, the grunts and snarls of the enemy hunting her sisters. She heard a single cry in Darnassian, swiftly raised in agony and as quickly silenced, and at that she raised her bow overhead and the moon's radiance doubled in intensity.

As silent as the forest on a windless night her people withdrew. But not far.

There were many advantages on the battlefield. Strength, endurance, courage, discipline. Magical might, swift mounts or agility. But of those advantages four proudly rose as queens to shame the others: stealth, mobility, range, and knowledge of the terrain.

All four served a vital purpose, and that was keeping the enemy from being able to harm you. Stealth because an enemy that couldn't find you couldn't even approach you, range to keep you from the melee weapons and inferior bows and guns of the enemy, mobility to keep you ever ahead of their blundering steps, and knowledge of the terrain so you always knew exactly where to go.

Her people had all of these things. No enemy could touch them, for they cloaked themselves in the night and danced elusively out of reach, the very forest serving to shield and shelter them. And their prized weapon, the longbow, allowed them to devastate their enemy even as they remained safe from harm. No armor could withstand the devastating broadheads Sentinels employed, and even an enemy hardened with bloodlust who laughed at minor wounds fell when pierced through the heart.

Wherever the Horde forces pushed hardest her people fell back, while others surrounding them continued the relentless barrage of arrows. And above it all her hippogryph riders rained death upon their enemies, safe from the feebly flung spears and axes rising from below.

Had things continued like this, Tyrande could've hoped to utterly destroy the enemy with no warriors but her archers, and perhaps a charge of the nightsabers at the last to mop up. And indeed she'd won many such victories in the past, without a single of her sisters suffering a wound. Few creatures could face total slaughter against an enemy they couldn't reach without breaking and fleeing in panic.

But not orcs. They were immune to terror, she'd learned. Faced with death they might attempt a tactical retreat, and if no other option presented itself they might attempt to negotiate for a mutual withdrawal. But if they determined retreat or negotiation futile they would fight to the last, and even as their companions were butchered around them they would fight on, bellowing their defiance until they stood alone in a field of corpses, trying to take some of the enemy with them as their final lifeblood leaked out of them.

It was hard not to envy such courage, when years of training and discipline were required to keep her own people from succumbing to terror when defeat loomed. But if such immunity to terror could be bought only if it was accompanied by the bloodlust and reckless fury of that savage race, she would refuse it without hesitation.

Too high a price.

Bellows from below were imposing some order on the confused enemy, and from the trees some of the orcs and other Horde warriors were returning to regroup, finally remembering the crude wooden burrows they'd constructed around the camp. Within those burrows they'd be safe from the arrows, at least until they were destroyed or burned.

But before any such thing could happen warhorns sounded, and from the center of the enemy camp a dozen magnataur trotted into view, wielding massive axes and hammers in either hand and thundering directly towards Tyrande's position with a weight to make the ground shake. Sev'elha gave a piteous whine, and from behind she could her soft murmurs as her huntresses quieted their nightsabers.

The charge of the magnataur was accompanied by the rise of six proto drakes, the primitive dragons rising to the sky with the heavy beat of their oddly curved wings, and breathing frost and flame into the night in the direction of her circling hippogryph riders. Around the drakes a full two dozen wyvern and bat riders rose, those who'd seen their fellows shot down and had wisely decided to remain aground until a more cohesive strategy could be drawn up.

Perhaps just as terrible, the flames raised by shaman and mage burst up again all around the clearing, sometimes accompanied by a cry of pain as one of her sisters was caught in a burning tree. The druids were extinguishing the flames with cyclones as quickly as they were able, but soon Tyrande saw that the Horde casters had grown crafty, directing their flames wherever the arrows had come from thickest. Not only did this burn her Sentinels, but it also forced the druids to be more wary in putting out the flames for fear of hurting their own companions with their fierce winds.

In the lurid glow arrows flew from all directions to meet both magnataur and fliers, but with less effect than hoped for. The bats and wyverns were wary now, dodging constantly, and the bright light was making it harder for her sisters to see. The proto drakes were larger and less maneuverable, but a drake was not so easily brought down, not even by the longbow of the kaldorei.

As for the magnataur, Tyrande and her sisters had yet to discover where on those massive bodies to strike a vital wound. With such thick fur and hides and a generous layer of blubber beneath, they could be as filled with arrows as a pincushion and still continue forward. The head and neck were obvious targets, but the orcs had gifted the brutes with greathelms and chokers that protected those areas. The metal of that armor was heavier than any even an orc could bear, and a Sentinel's arrow glanced away ninety-nine shots out of a hundred.

They'd slain a handful of the brutes, of course, but always the orcs went out of their way to destroy the bodies to prevent them from learning anything of their vitals.

Time for this battle to take a new turn, as she'd expected it must. Tyrande fitted an arrow to her bow, setting it aflame with her familiar holy fire, and loosed it at the closest of the magnataur, who was also the largest. It was a long shot, even for one of their bows, but it struck true.

Only moments after it embedded itself in the chest of the great brute, the flames nearest the fur guttering out at the creature's musk but the fire higher up the shaft still flickering, a bellow from above was accompanied by a hissing sound. The magnataur had tugged the arrow free and tossed it aside, laughing and clashing its weapons at her as it shouted taunts in its barbaric northern tongue, but its laughter cut off as Algaroth's corrosive breath enveloped it. Not a short burst, but a sustained blast that splashed the viscous mist over a handful of the other nearby magnataur.

The creature who'd taken the brunt of the blast kept charging, but its steps faltered as it clawed at its eyes, bellowing in fear and agony. Even the breath of a chimaera wasn't proof against the creature's stinking fur, and Algaroth cut off his attack while he circled to strafe again. But in the lull the creature yanked the heavy helm off its head, mauling its face with its free hand.

Tyrande's second arrow took it in the left eye, between two of its thick fingers.

"Prepare yourselves, sisters!" she shouted as the other magnataur continued their charge. Algaroth may have time for another burst, but that would leave at least nine of the creatures to deal with. Behind her the nightsabers began growling in anticipation, and she heard the nearly imperceptible whisper of glaives being drawn free, one in the main hand to throw, the other held in the off hand to replace the first for two quick volleys before the huntress must pause for a heartbeat to reach for another glaive.

She loosed another flaming arrow at one of the magnataur near the back, whose position put it in the center of a clump of the creatures. When Algaroth's breath came again the brutes immediately scattered, slowing their charge and leaving their hapless companion to face the acid alone. Elessa's direction was true, and the chimaera's breath struck the creature full in the upper torso and head. Although it had seen its fellow perish to an arrow, facing such agony drove even those with iron will mad. The magnataur yanked its helmet free even while shielding its face with its other arm.

Tyrande's arrow took it below the chin, just above the top of its choker. It went down gurgling and thrashing.

And then the magnataur were upon them.

Tyrande gave a piercing whistle and spurred Sev'elha forward, directly towards the oncoming force. Over her head dozens of glaives whispered, slamming into the creatures and bouncing aside to strike other targets before cutting into the ground to serve as caltrops. Some of the magnataur showed red fur where the weapons had struck, and one stumbled over a glaive and bellowed in rage. But the attack seemed pathetic. Her archers in the trees had time for one last volley, pincushioning the brutes, and then they and Tyrande and her riders merged too close to safely loose arrows.

Sev'elha dodged around the side of the pack, and Tyrande was forced to lean out of the saddle to avoid a hammer that likely weighed as much as she did. Behind her the other huntresses flowed around the magnataur, coolly dodging their attacks even as they hacked and sliced with their glaives, holding the three-pointed weapons in the center and putting every point to best effect. Tyrande didn't harbor much hope that those attacks were any more effective than the arrows or thrown glaives.

Behind her she heard a horrible _thud_ and a strangled cry, and her heart lurched for whichever of her sisters hadn't been fast enough. A nightsaber yowled in sudden pain and fury before being silenced with another final-sounding _thud_, and Tyrande gritted her teeth. She had no time to worry about others when the magnataur were aiming for her own head.

Another few frantic moments of dodging and swerving and Sev'elha carried her past the last of the brutes. Tyrande caught sight of a force of at least a hundred Horde, orcs and tauren mostly, following the trail the magnataur had left at a sprint and closing fast. Arrows were arcing down towards them, but not as many as she would've hoped for.

The battle in the sky wasn't going well.

But she had no time to worry about that either at the moment. Tyrande wheeled Sev'elha away from the approaching warriors and circled behind the magnataur, searching for a target of opportunity for her bow. None presented itself. The magnataur and her huntresses had nearly passed one another up, both sides mostly untouched from the encounter save for a single trampled night elf and nightsaber.

The magnataur were starting to slow, preparing to wheel and resume the charge, when a deafening crash from ahead resolved suddenly into one of the trees flying forward to slam into a magnataur. The creature was so huge the tree cracked in two over its torso, but the blow knocked it a dozen feet backwards.

Then the two mountain giants Tyrande's whistle had alerted crashed into view, one tossing aside its tree club to bend down and swat at another of the charging magnataur with its closed fist. That magnataur, too, went down, its massive helmet comically sailing away at the force of the blow.

The brute was lucky its head hadn't still been inside. After running arrogantly through the comparatively vulnerable huntresses and slaying one of her sisters, overmatching them like a beetle trampling ants, the magnataur abruptly found themselves facing an enemy that dwarfed them.

But they, like their orc masters, weren't ones to back down from a challenge. The remaining brutes raised a cry and swerved in their charge to circle the giants, the ones in front lowering shoulders to slam into the granite bodies of their opponents while the ones behind and to the sides rushed in to rain heavy blows on those sturdy bodies. Another magnataur in front went down, stunned by a giant fist, but the two the giants had already felled were back on their feet.

And, amazingly, when one of the giants lifted a massive foot to crush the magnataur in front of it, the brute gleefully tossed aside its weapons to catch the craggy appendage. For a moment it seemed it must be crushed, and it staggered drunkenly with a deafening bellow. Then it stabilized, still clutching that foot, and the giant lurched sideways and groaned in surprise. The other magnataur swarmed it, one throwing itself under the giant's other leg, and with a ponderous _crash_ the creature that dwarfed most hills went down.

The magnataur that had caught its foot leapt up atop the supine giant, bellowing in victory, only to have its bellow turn to one of agony as corrosive mist splashed around its head and shoulders. The mist pooled harmlessly on the giant, doing no damage to the creature of stone, and Tyrande knew from experience that a mountain giant completely drenched in a chimaera's acid could wade through an enemy spreading that corrosive substance to all it touched. The two worked well together for that reason.

It was perhaps too much to hope that even two mountain giants and a one-headed chimaera could take down all the magnataur, but Tyrande had no choice but to leave them to it as she wheeled around, leading her huntresses towards the charging group of orcs and tauren. These ones were heavily armored and bearing heavy tower shields, elite veterans, and under the barrage of arrows they'd slowed only enough to raise a shield wall before continuing their charge.

A shieldwall could be effective for defense, but the arrows of her archers could punch through even those great shields and do some damage, and shields could only be in so many places at once. She just had to keep her huntresses moving around to encircle them, trusting their sisters to continue raining volleys down, until some gap opened up in the shieldwall that she could exploit.

She still had a weapon she hadn't yet unsheathed.

Behind this vanguard the rest of the camp was mobilizing, thousands of orcs strong even after the losses they'd incurred. In the sky her hippogryph riders were sorely pressed by the proto drakes and Horde flyers. Her sisters were cunning enough to drop low to the trees, luring pursuers into a volley of arrows, but the orc and troll riders were returning the favor every time a hippogryph got close to the Horde camp, as lightning bolts and fireballs flew up to swat them out of the sky.

This Horde commander was no novice to battle. Caught by surprise in the middle of the night, scouts cut down without a chance to give warning and hundreds slain before his troops could even get out of their tents, and he was still turning the battle to his favor.

Of course, his forces did outnumber hers eight to one.

Tyrande whistled sharply and loosed an arrow into the sky. It hit no enemy, but the message was still received. Her archers began focusing on the battle in the sky, shooting at the enemy on the ground only when there was no better target to be had.

If need be she could withdraw her troops and attack in a different place and from a different angle. But only if her sisters won the sky. The troll bat riders had bottles of incendiary flames they could fling, keeping her retreating forces well lit and providing the proto drakes and wyvern riders with plentiful targets. To say nothing of the ground forces that would march themselves into the ground if need be to keep her off-balance and fleeing.

They had to win the sky.

Tyrande nocked another arrow and loosed in a fluid motion, the shaft driving through the tower shield one of the front tauren held right where his forearm would be strapped to the wood, up near the elbow. Her target raised a bellow above the din of battle, his shield dropping down slightly from the surprise and pain, and she smiled in satisfaction as one of her sister's glaives cut through the gap and bounced about inside. Their heavy armor may have stopped most of the damage those three wicked points could inflict, but there would be more where that came from.

She let Sev'elha have her head as she focused on drawing and loosing, moving perpendicular to the Horde vanguard even as they approached. Back in the camp the Horde commander had drawn his forces into ranks and was spurring them in the direction of her huntresses, likely intent on overwhelming the enemy he could see rather than facing the daunting prospect of sending his warriors into the woods to be shot down.

Good.

She kept going, continuing the pretense of encircling the vanguard even as it became clear that the main force would arrive before she could manage it. Any of her huntresses caught between the vanguard and the main force would be trampled underfoot as surely as if beneath a dozen magnataur.

The vanguard slowed to a halt, reinforcing their shieldwall as it became obvious the enemy was going to do their job for them. Tyrande's huntresses bunched around her, holding their glaives steady as they inserted themselves directly between vanguard and main force. The worst possible place to be.

For the enemy.

From the midst of the main force she heard a harsh orc bellowing in sudden excitement and triumph. She knew enough of the foul language to recognize the meaning of those guttural grunts. "Dezur uk suzh'algez priestuz izh galuz! Kigaz uk suzh'algez!" _The kaldorei Priestess of the Moon is in their midst. Cripple the kaldorei!_

The moon shone gently overhead, soft as a mother's kiss upon her brow. Tyrande looked up at its comforting light, feeling Elune's warmth fill her even as she directed all her faith into her plea.

The stars were Elune's handmaidens. At the behest of the one who spoke the will of Elune upon Azeroth, the High Priestess herself, they fell down to smite her enemies.

Softly, at first, one or two pure white pinpoints like descending fireflies, swiftly growing larger and larger until they struck like arcane explosions, sending any caught within their radius flying away like broken dolls. Then ten, then a dozen. Finally a hundred, falling all around them.

Her huntresses battled fiercely to keep the enemy at bay long enough for Tyrande's ultimate attack to build to its full effect. Meanwhile around her the eager cries of Horde warriors gave way to bellows of fear and pain, in a transition as slow as a Winterspring glacier advancing across a valley. And finally the eager voice that had been crying for her death for an eternity gave a strangled order to withdraw.

Not terror or panic, simple pragmatism. Her position was unassailable as long as she kept up this holy barrage, and her power wasn't limitless. Best to withdraw until this rain of falling stars was done with.

Indeed, now at long last she could feel the last of her strength being strained by the might of her spell, Elune's aid similarly strained as the goddess sought to impose her will over such a vast distance for such a vast working. And for such lengthy amount of time.

Tyrande closed her eyes, and just that simply the spell began to fade, a few last stars plunging down to strike at her fleeing foes. She swayed in her saddle, only now aware of Itelya holding her right leg and arm. Pain came to her as if from a great distance, and she looked down blankly to see her sister beating furiously at lurid green flames that licked at her arm and shoulder.

Felfire. A warlock's cursed attack. So the orcs had returned to fully embrace the demonic heritage they claimed to have abandoned. Was she surprised?

"We must withdraw," she murmured, words faint and garbled by a tongue that felt thick as a hippogryph's tail. Prayers and incantations were at her fingertip to cleanse the fire from her and her huntress and encourage the damaged flesh to begin its healing, but they stayed just out of reach. She swayed again, suddenly weary as no kaldorei should be while the moon shone down upon her. "We must withdraw," she said again, louder. "Before they regroup and return."

Itelya shook her head. "The orcs won the sky," she said. "But their commander has decided to withdraw his own forces rather than press the attack."

"For now," Tyrande mumbled. How did one heal dispel magical effects, again? She'd been doing it for nearly as long as she'd been alive. "We must be ready for when they return."

Her huntress was already shaking her head before Tyrande had finished the command. "I do not think they'll return, High Priestess," she said. She stepped aside slightly, motioning to the ranks of huntresses to part, and Tyrande was left with a view forward, to where the fighting had been thickest, and a hint at what her faith had wrought.

Orcs, tauren, and a lesser number of trolls, blood elves, and goblins lay heaped in piles or spread like a blanket over the ground. As if a field of living beings had been reaped like wheat and now waited to be gathered up into bundles to be threshed.

Hundreds of bodies, perhaps thousands, and wherever the ground was clear it was molten, glassed by the force of the falling stars. It took her longer to realize that only a dozen of her huntresses remained, all of them bloody and not a single one uninjured. To protect her.

She nearly tumbled off Sev'elha's back, and Itelya caught her and pulled her to the ground. "Magnataur?" she asked weakly.

"It's been nearly two hours, priestess. I've never seen you work Elune's will for so long. The giants felled the final magnataur over an hour ago." Her voice saddened. "But the drakes drove Algaroth to the ground and ended him, Elune bless his noble spirit."

"Hippogryph riders?"

"Took heavy losses, Beloved of Elune." Itelya began gently stroking her cheek. "But many dropped below the level of the treetops and our sisters covered their escape. Rest now, High Priestess. Rest well, while the moon yet shines on you. Day will come soon."

Tyrande tried to push her sister aside, annoyed. "If they aren't following us we must follow them. We cannot relent until they are gone from Ashenvale, or all will have been for naught."

Another of her huntresses dropped down beside them, cradling Tyrande's head in her lap. "We will, Mistress. When night falls again they will once again know the sting of our arrows. Until then sleep."

She struggled, against her weariness and the firm but gentle grasp of her sisters. So many must be wounded after such a battle, and she had her own wounds to think of. Experience had taught her that the longer she let such wounds go untreated, the more dire they could become. No one of her sisters would die on her account, and she would not let her skin be permanently disfigured. She would not see the ardor in Malfurion's eyes fade.

Both struggles proved more than she had strength for, and with her goddess's light bathing her brow she settled into deep, dreamless sleep.


End file.
